


Rules on the Fridge

by BazookaMelon



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - fandom, john watson - Fandom, johnlock - Fandom
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, John Watson - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Other, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-09-01 08:29:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 29,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8616856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BazookaMelon/pseuds/BazookaMelon
Summary: ♪ First Names are for Lovers ♪Blood, tile, a jar. Lights, bags, sirens. Waiting, silence, regret. Guilt, anger, remorse. Consciousness, yelling, depart. Home, quiet, tense. Magnets, paper, angry penned-in letters.Rules on the fridge.♫	♫	♫Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, living in a dated, shared flat with bullet holes in the wall, a skull on the mantle, and an absolutely catastrophic kitchen. It wasn’t hard to get along, usually. John could handle Sherlock’s bluntness and absolute disregard - or lack of knowledge - for people’s feelings or sentiment. And Sherlock could handle John’s questions about everything he said.♫	♫	♫Sherlock went off the rails. He did an experiment that got him hospitalized after John found him on the scene.Lines were crossed. Rules were made. Everything was on the line - concentration on cases slowly dwindled, priorities were mixed, and absolutely everything was spinning.





	1. I See The Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ♪ Distance Doesn’t Ruin a Relationship; Doubts Do ♪

What had he done now? Watson rose from his chair, brushing his hands against his thighs as he looked toward the kitchen. A very loud popping sound had just come from there, and then stifled excitement followed. He walked towards the doorway with internal hesitance, but it didn’t show at all outwardly since he’d just stormed in with a frown on his face.  
“What have you done now?” Watson asked, looking to where Holmes’s hands had been moments before to see a dark spot on the counter and various pieces of… stuff… clinging to the walls and countertops. “Sherlock!” He exclaimed, going over to the scene to take a closer look. He went to touch it, but Holmes smacked his hand away.  
“Do you have a death wish?” He asked, having just put rubber gloves on his hands to slowly peel a piece of the stuff from the wall, then place it onto a Petri dish to look at under his microscope. “Honestly, John. I’m not doing anything terribly bad.”  
“Well, what is it you’ve done?” Watson questioned, following him to the microscope, his body language speaking out his sternness for him. Arms folded firmly across his chest, eyebrows down, eyes narrowed, and the corners of his mouth turned downward. You couldn’t get more of a ‘disappointed parent’ look from anyone.  
“An experiment.” Holmes said, his mind busy. He fiddled with the wheels and dials on the microscope. Watson rolled his eyes, swiping the Petri dish, that Holmes had so perfectly placed, away. His head whipped back to look at Watson, standing up to be quite a bit taller than him. “Give it back.” He said, putting his hand out.  
“What have you done?” John asked, matching Holmes’s intensity with a stern, almost grumpy expression.  
“Honestly, John! You’re not my _mother_!” He said, almost whining now. “Give it back, I’m on the verge of something!”  
“Of what?” Watson asked, his expression remaining static.

Holmes got tired of this conversation, grabbing another Petri dish and pulling another piece of the stuff from the wall to try again. Watson had grabbed the microscope during that time and was holding it awkwardly, but steadily.  
This earned him quite a look from Holmes. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” He mused, his face falling expressionless and dead when he looked towards Watson. “What do you think I’m going to do? _Kill myself_ with it?”  
“Who knows?” Watson countered loudly, glaring at him now. “Tell me what you’re doing.” John adjusted his arms slightly, his eyes locked firmly on Holmes.  
Holmes mumbled angrily to himself, pacing back and forth with the new Petri dish in his hand. “I’m not sure how to explain it to you.” Holmes said, sitting down where the microscope was, waiting for Watson to place it before him, but it didn’t happen. He looked incredulously at Watson for this lack of acceptance over his answer. “What am I supposed to say?” He asked, his voice matching that of a whiny child.  
“What did you… explode?” Watson asked, gesturing with his head toward the mess he’d made. Holmes rolled his eyes and groaned loudly, standing back up to pace.  
He huffed, running a gloved hand through his hair in irritation. “You’re not my mother!” He yelled, facing Watson fully now.  
“No, I’m not. I’m your flat mate. And you’ve just exploded something in our kitchen.” He said, his voice repeating rhythmic patterns as he spoke as if to a child who should’ve known better.  
Holmes’ face relax and his mouth hang open slightly as he thought about it. “Okay, well the stuff on the walls is a corrosive material that can eat away at flesh. I’ve just created it.” He said, hoping that would suffice.  
“Why would you create something like that?” Watson cried, sure Mrs. Hudson would appear any moment to tell them to quiet down.  
“For kicks!” Holmes yelled back sarcastically, gesturing at the table as he lost his patience for John’s questioning, indicating he should put down the microscope.  
“Will you get rid of it all afterwards?”  
“I’ll clean it up.”  
“… Fine.”

Watson sat back down in his chair, picking up the newspaper to read it a bit further. The sounds of Holmes scraping up pieces from the walls and counters were slightly distracting, making him sigh loudly every so often. This earned him a glare to the back of his head from Holmes each time.  
Eventually Holmes emerged from the kitchen, his being looking unkempt – more so than when Watson had gone in the kitchen previously. He flopped onto the couch with a loud huff, a frown on his face.  
“Oh, what now?” John asked, raising his eyebrows at his ridiculously immature flat mate.  
“You’re not letting me do my experiments. They help me warm up my mind for a case.” He grumbled, rolling onto his back and crossing his arms over his chest. “Why did I want you as a flat mate?”  
“To help pay the rent, most likely.” Watson replied, staring down at the newspaper now, not in the mood to argue with Holmes about all this. He brought it onto himself, and he knows that.  
“I’m a consulting detective, and you’re not letting me do my best.”  
“Your best is frighteningly good.”  
“Thank you, John.”  
“Don’t mention it.”

♫ ♫ ♫

They sat in silence for a time. Holmes was getting agitated, his mind walking itself in circles as he tried to think about a case, but John’s behaviour was putting him off as it was so different from before. He sat up suddenly, his hands on his knees as he looked at Watson.  
“What was it exactly that made you so upset again?” He asked, making Watson drop the newspaper he was holding, his hands going up like he was surrendering, but his face baffled. He was referring indirectly to why Watson had created so many guidelines and stuck them to the fridge.  
“I can’t believe you, Sherlock.” He said, staring incredulously at the floor. “You honestly can’t have forgotten that already. This is madness.”  
“Is it?” Holmes asked, laying back down on the couch on his back, steepling his fingers under his chin.  
“Sherlock, you just about died!” Watson, yelled, earning him an eye roll from Holmes. “You can’t just… do that! For God’s sake!” He was red in the face by then, his face contorted in completely rational anger.  
“Right, right, I haven’t forgotten the incident. But why were you so upset? Was it because you too wouldn’t be able to pay the rent here? That must be it.” He said, staring blankly at the ceiling. He was completely serious. He really thought that it must have been to pay rent that Watson had lost it when it happened.  
Watson gave up, figuring it was late enough at night to just go to bed. He wandered to his room, changing into his pajamas as he heard Holmes pacing in the living room.  
“Madness. Absolute madness.” He mumbled to himself as he crawled beneath the covers and turned out his lamp. He closed his eyes with a heavy sigh.

Holmes heard the creak of Watson’s bed from downstairs, knowing he was now going to sleep. He knew John couldn’t sleep very well when he played violin, so he went and grabbed it, standing by their large window, and began to play.  
He heard a loud, irritated groan from Watson’s room, a smirk playing on his lips. He swayed back and forth with the music slightly, hearing Watson toss and turn.  
But suddenly the tossing stopped, so Sherlock stopped playing to listen to what he was doing. In the middle of the song, Watson was getting up.  
He came down the stairs, the look on his face not angry, but somewhat… sentimental.

“Where did you learn that song?” Watson asked, his face in a frown, but not an angry frown. More of a confused, thoughtful frown. Sherlock stared at his face for a moment, then shrugged.  
“Heard it somewhere. Maybe on telly.” He said, turning back to face the window, placing the bow back on the strings.  
He heard Watson sit on the couch behind him, frowning in confusion before he began playing again. They stayed like this for about an hour before they each were tired enough to really go to sleep. They did so after their friendly departure to their respective rooms, both seemingly in a good mood.  
Watson heard the song over and over in his head as he fell asleep, and Sherlock saw Watson’s facial expression, trying to figure out what about the song made him get up as he too tried to sleep.  
♫ ♫ ♫


	2. I See The Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ♪ My Music Will Tell You More About Me Than I Ever Will ♪

As it turned out, Sherlock was up all night trying to figure out what about that song had made Watson give that reaction. Especially since a moment before he had been so irritable about his violin playing.  
Watson seemed unaffected by anything that night, having gotten up in the morning and worked around all the foreign equipment on the countertops to get himself something to eat. Sherlock didn’t get up until very late. He had tried to sleep once the sun had come up, but had no luck.

He came out of his room disheveled, not having gotten dressed that day, or changed into pajamas the night before. His hair was but matted curls and his eyes were dark, bloodshot, and swollen from lack of sleep.  
Watson gave him a good long look, and then made him hot cup of tea without a word. He handed it to him gingerly, getting a nod of thanks from Sherlock as he sipped it quietly, still thinking.

“What about that song made you get up?” Sherlock asked, his eyes lazing towards Watson, taking a rather large gulp of tea after his initial taste.  
“What do you mean?” Watson asked, raising an eyebrow as he sipped his own cup. “I just remember that song from when I was young, brought me back I suppose.”  
“Why did you get out of bed? You could hear it from your room.” Sherlock said, staring into his tea as his body moved sluggishly, but his mind clearly didn’t.  
“I dunno, wanted to hear it more clearly I suppose.” Watson shrugged, setting down his tea to look at Sherlock. “Why do you ask? Is something about it troubling you?”  
“Quite.” Sherlock said, standing up suddenly, his tea just about splashing out of its cup. “I don’t understand how a song that I must’ve heard on the radio caused you to get out of bed to listen to it. You were clearly agitated with my playing just prior to that song, why get up? I thought you were cross.”  
“I was cross,” Watson said, raising his eyebrows, “but that song reminds me of when my mother would make me soup when I was ill as a child.” He said, shrugging once more.  
“Why do you enjoy remembering to be ill? Being ill is the worst thing to remember, I don’t understand. You’re not making any sense.” Sherlock complained, placing down his tea to start pacing back and forth, his hands folded beneath his chin as his eyes darted around. “John, I don’t understand!” He cried when nothing added up even though he was walking now.  
“Sherlock, this is not something to fret about-” Watson sighed, but he was shushed promptly. He did not utter another word unless Sherlock asked a question, but every answer he gave only agitated him further. He wasn’t sure why he was thinking about this rather than whining over a lack of a good case.  
Maybe that was exactly why; he didn’t have a good case so he wanted to solve this small mystery – one he didn’t understand in the slightest.

♫ ♫ ♫

The only thing that stopped him from fretting over Watson and the song was his phone ringing beneath the couch cushion. He tore into the couch, grabbing his phone. He answered after a couple rings of just holding it in his hand, pacing once more. One hand was behind his back as he hummed into the phone, seeming uninterested.  
“Right, so you want me to pop in to look at a dead body, of whom seemingly died of natural causes – but you have a suspicion it was a murder?” Sherlock mused, his facial expression void of any kind of hint as to what he was thinking.  
“I’ll be there in a bit.” He said, hanging up, then jumping into the air and thrusting his fist above his head. He cheered and hooted for a moment, his pacing increasing in speed, his mouth unable to keep up with his mind as he voiced his thoughts aloud. “Oh, a good case! A good murder - and of natural causes; it must be murder if Lestrade thinks so, right?” Sherlock said as he pulled his jacket over his arms.  
Sherlock walked out the door, leaving Watson in shock at this reaction for about thirty seconds. He was about to get up to grab a bite when Sherlock’s head popped back through the doorway, inviting him to come along. Watson quickly accepted.

♫ ♫ ♫

They got to the lab where they were running tests on the man’s body to see if he had high levels of metal, or any sort of injectable substance that could’ve caused his system to shut down. They weren’t finding anything.  
Sherlock forcibly requested everyone to leave the room but him, Watson, and Lestrade. Lestrade started giving the details of everything he knew while Sherlock paced around the body, looking it over, sometimes smelling or feeling various areas. Watson watched as Sherlock’s eyes darted about, his mouth pressed into a thin line, then suddenly agape.  
“Oh!” He yelled in the middle of Lestrade’s list of things they’d found. “Oh, oh, oh! You were right, this isn’t a naturally-caused death; this is a murder!” He hollered, sounding much too excited about it.  
Watson gave him a look, clearing his throat, dulling down Sherlock’s excitement immediately to fit Watson’s social behavior.

“Puncture points were found, but nothing was injected, correct?” Sherlock asked, his eyes wide as they continued to dart over the body.  
“Yes, and nothing seemed to have been taken, but of course that’s hard to say. But taking blood, even like that, shouldn’t’ve been enough to kill ‘im. Plus, he still had most of his blood when we found ‘im.”  
“Of course, of course!” Sherlock repeated, a smile on his face once more. Watson didn’t protest, knowing continuing to do so would do absolutely nothing.  
“There are many spots you found, yes?”  
“Twelve of ‘em.” Lestrade answered grimly, wondering what Sherlock was getting on about.  
“Twelve, no, _no_! Thir _teen_!” He said, pulling the man’s jacket open, lifting his shirt to show a small, reddish spot on his stomach.  
“What _is_ that?” Lestrade asked, wanting to motion people in to take a look, but he halted his movements to let Sherlock finish.

“Decoy spots – of course you’d suspect there were only twelve, why would do you a thirteenth one? It’s not linear in your brain, thirteen doesn’t look nice, and so you assume it was only twelve. Neck, wrists, bottoms of the feet, inner elbows… but nothing was found in the bloodstream. Because the murderer wasn’t aiming for the bloodstream. Don’t you see?” Sherlock said, grinning like a madman. Lestrade shook his head. Sherlock looked expectantly at Watson, who just shrugged.  
“Oh, right – you stupid, _stupid_ people are so bland - no offense.” He said, glancing at John as he got a glare shot at him. He cleared his throat, then continued; “The injection was placed here to create problems in the bowels, causing the diminishing of the interior walls of the digestive tract – hence why this one is red, because the skin is irritated from the leaking bowels.” He said, a smile still stuck on his face.  
“Are you serious?” Lestrade asked, frowning at him. “What could’ve been used to do that?”  
“I’ll bring in a sample.” Sherlock said, walking out. Watson then clued in that that’s what he was making in the kitchen – Sherlock had known what happened already, and was figuring out what was injected into him…  
“I thought you threw that out?” Watson called after him as he strode down the hallway at a fast pace.  
“I said I’d clean it up. So, I did. I put it in a jar in the fridge. I knew I’d need it, John. Why do you think I made it in the first place?” Sherlock asked, looking back at Watson.  
“Well, maybe if you’d told me I would’ve known.” Watson grumbled, following him out to a cab to go back to their flat. Sherlock grabbed the jar and popped back out to take it to Lestrade, leaving Watson in the flat alone.

He decided to turn on the telly and watch the news for a bit, bringing out his laptop to start on a new post. He started typing away about Sherlock’s pacing, leaving out his extreme excitement, but keeping his interest. He wouldn’t post it until it’d been solved though, so he just left it there, closing the laptop and focusing back on the telly.  
Sherlock was out for a lot longer than Watson expected; he was clearly doing other things besides just dropping off a jar of stuff to Lestrade. He stood and grabbed his phone, seeing he’d gotten a text from Sherlock.

 

❝ Will be out for a while,  
don’t wait up for me.  
-SH ❞

Sherlock wasn’t lying. He was out for a _long_ while, doing who-knows-what. Watson began to worry when the Sun started setting and Sherlock hadn’t returned. He was probably ignoring every guideline Watson had created to help keep him safe from himself. Not that there were many; there were few enough so he could break them all in this amount of time.  
There was a list of the guidelines on the fridge, which he read aloud to Sherlock at least once a week to remind him. Sherlock always groaned loudly, liking Watson to that of his mother. But Watson couldn’t care, since he had just about killed himself with one of his ‘experiments’ and wouldn’t stand for it.

He was just about to call Sherlock when he heard the door swing open, then swing closed at the pace that only Sherlock could uphold. He heard quick steps climb the stairs, followed by significantly slower steps wander to the couch where Sherlock flopped down.  
Watson was in the kitchen looking for something to eat for dinner, so he couldn’t see which way Sherlock had flopped, or what disasters he’d been in due to his appearance post return. He sighed, realizing they had next to no groceries yet again. He walked to his chair, slumping into it. “Sherlock?” He asked, getting a hum in response. Sherlock’s face was in a pillow.  
Sherlock stayed in that position for about fifteen minutes, then suddenly adjusted to a normal sitting position, glancing around the room and then reaching for his violin as if there weren’t a sizeable bruise on his left cheek along with some scrapes.

“Sherlock!” Watson cried, staring wide-eyed at his flat mate as he merely rolled his eyes. “What have you done to yourself now? What happened?”  
“It was test. I knew you wouldn’t like it so I went out without you, then hid my face upon coming inside, hoping you’d go to bed before I got bored out of my _mind_... but you didn’t. So here we are.” He said, sliding the bow absent-mindedly across the strings, his left eye slightly swollen from the bruise on his face.  
“What kind of test leaves you with _that_?” Watson asked, putting down his own cup to go over and inspect his face, his doctoring instincts coming into play.  
“A tedious one.” Sherlock said, wincing when Watson gently prodded the bruise.  
“You’ve waited much too long to help the swelling much, but we can help the pain. I’ll get you some ice.”

Watson left Sherlock sitting on the couch, playing with his mouth pressed into a straight line as his eye continued to swell slowly. Watson came back with some frozen peas covered with a tea towel, handing it to Sherlock and directing him on where to hold it.  
“What were you testing?” Watson asked, trying not to sound pushy or angry because that just made Sherlock close up.  
“A method of escape – the man had no injuries on him though, so clearly my method was not the one he used.”  
Watson rolled his eyes, having Sherlock remove the peas after a couple minutes so he could assess the cuts. Only one was bad enough to do anything about. He grabbed some medical tape and gauze, gently attaching it to his cheek.

They stayed silent for a long while after that, neither of them wanting or needing to say a word. Watson soon went to bed, crawling under the covers with a somewhat disgruntled sigh.  
But just as he was about to drift off he heard Sherlock’s violin once more. At first he only worried that his chin was resting on the instrument, which had significant bruising and minor swelling, but then he recognized the song. The same one from the night previous.  
This time he stayed in bed, not wanting to dismay Sherlock, and let the song lull him gently to sleep.  
♫ ♫ ♫


	3. Under The Shade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ♪ You Can’t Rush Something You Want to Last Forever ♪

How does one sleep soundly when there’s inconsistent music coming from downstairs and a thunderous storm raging outside one’s window? Watson sure knew how. He’d slept through many things, and this was nothing by comparison.  
He woke up the next morning rather refreshed, only to be startled fully awake when he saw Sherlock, the swelling on his face having gone down slightly, but the bruising having doubled in darkness.  
“Good God, Sherlock!” He cried, freezing as he stared at his face. “You need to get something on that, you iced it, right?” He asked, not having realized Sherlock had been up all night on his violin, thinking about the case.  
He was slowly sipping away at a cup of tea that Watson was sure Sherlock didn’t make for himself – he wasn’t sure _where_ it came from. But he decided not to question it.  
“Sherlock? Are you listening to me?” Watson asked, his voice calmer now that he’d gotten used to the black-and-blue faced Sherlock in his white dress shirt and black dress pants. And no socks or shoes to be seen.

“If the killer wanted so badly not to be caught you’d think he’d have perfected the serum so it wouldn’t show on the outside – I only caught it because of irritation of the skin before cell death…” He rambled aloud now that Watson was there to hear it.  
“Did you get any sleep at all?” Watson asked, suddenly seeing that, aside from his bruised face, his eyes looked dry and bloodshot on both sides – a dark circle surrounding his right eye from lack of sleep and left eye from heavy bruising.  
“No. Of course not. Too much to think about.” He said, looking at Watson as if he was the stupidest person on Earth for a mere moment before softening his gaze once more to fixate on the wall.  
“If such a man wanted to do that then why wouldn’t he cover his tracks?” Watson recapped, realizing Sherlock wouldn’t stop until he got some resolve.  
“Exactly.” Sherlock nodded, his fingers steepled under his nose. “I don’t understand why you wouldn’t make _sure_ …”  
“How exactly _would_ he make sure? With another victim? Maybe this was the test.” Watson sighed, walking into the kitchen – maybe some food magically appeared overnight.  
“No, too risky, this one’s too smart.” Sherlock said, shaking his head as he stood and started pacing back and forth through the lounge. “He cornered the victim without him trying too hard to escape, hence the lack of external damage to his body. In a “ _flight_ ” scenario you temporarily lose any thought or care about your physical well-being due to adrenaline. So, there’s no way he could’ve possibly had that response – or he’d at least have a bruised face like mine.”  
“So, fight?” Watson asked, but once again Sherlock shook his head.  
“No, freeze. He froze on the spot, but why?” He asked, pacing once more after a brief pause. “What was so frightening to him that he froze? Had no reaction at all? Or was it just traumatic enough that he couldn’t react one way or the other – something from his past?”  
“Like if I saw my mother back from the dead,” Watson said as an example, making Sherlock pause.  
“Yes, quite. You’d want to run because you know she’s dead – being logical. Or fight, because you know it can’t be her and someone’s just pissing you off.”  
Watson nodded, closing the cupboard. He started thinking about tea from the smell of Sherlock’s - it smelled quite good. Maybe that’d make a good breakfast.  
“I boiled water for your tea.” Sherlock said, making Watson raise his eyebrows. He went to the kitchen and poured it over a teabag, figuring it not worth it to question his timing, letting it steep as Sherlock continued.

“I still don’t understand – someone played some tricks on him or something.” Sherlock said, his frown deep. Watson hummed so Sherlock knew he was listening.  
“So, who was it? Who was it, John, was it his _cat_?” He asked, clearly getting more worked up than usual over this. “Who would’ve done it? I’ve got no dirt on anyone, nothing anyone would take as a motive… And nothing that would get that response from the victim.”  
“Unless he really _was_ just a willing test subject for the serum.” Watson said, making Sherlock pause. He sipped his tea carefully, feeling it was still too hot. “Like, he wanted to make sure it was perfect for his real victim so he could get away with it. So, he found someone willing to take the fall that would cover his tracks completely.”  
Sherlock cut him off there with loud _ooh_ ing and _awe_ ing, praising Watson’s intelligence. He smiled at this, the left side of his mouth turning upwards more than the right.  
“So now that he’s learned that it caused irritation to the skin he would’ve perfected it – his real victim would have a miniscule puncture wound on the stomach and deteriorating bowels – slightly faster than normal after death.” Sherlock started ranting, his tongue moving hardly slow enough for Watson to understand.

♫ ♫ ♫

Sherlock left to get more supplies for experiments, leaving Watson with the flat to himself. He decided he’d clean a bit.  
He put books back on shelves, dishes in the sink; he left Sherlock’s papers and equipment alone, but cleaned and dusted around them.  
When he finished, he boiled some more water to make new tea as his had gotten too cold, and he was still hungry, and turned on the telly. He sat down with a relaxed huff and looked down at his cup as he blew over the top of it, listening to the ranting voice of a reporter on the news.

“Another man found dead this very afternoon, a suspected murder. Scotland Yard is working at this very moment on catching the culprit-"  
John picked up his phone immediatly, dialing Sherlock.

“John.” Sherlock answered, clearly walking quite briskly as he heard air whipping past the microphone.  
“Sherlock, there’s been another one. This one is known to be a murder-”  
“Lestrade told me, I’ve been there.” Sherlock cut him off, making Watson frown.  
“How did you know so quickly?”  
“Lestrade asks me about anything he doesn’t understand, John. He never understands murder. Part of the reason I have my job as a consulting detective.”  
“Right…” Watson mumbled, rubbing his hand over his mouth, lingering on his chin. “Where are you now, Sherlock?”  
“I’ve just gone to run a few errands.” He said, leaving Watson dumbfounded.  
“Errands? Are you serious?”  
“Yes, John. Is that so hard to believe?” Sherlock hissed into the phone.  
“Quite. You never run errands.” John said in return; “What are you getting? We’re quite low on… everything. We could use some milk. Or crackers.”  
“I’m grabbing some sulfuric acid, nitric acid, and hydrochloric acid.” Sherlock responded, leaving John to sit there in estranged silence for a moment.  
“Alright, well could you also grab some-”  
“Nope.”

Sherlock hung up, making Watson shake his head disapprovingly, yet there was a small smile on his lips. He expected no more and no less from Sherlock Holmes, his flat mate for which he made rules to read over once a week.

>   
> No running off without explanation on where and return time,  
> No weaponry when alone,  
> No unauthorized experiments,  
> No hurting yourself or any reason,  
> 

And a crudely scribbled, clearly added,

>   
> Eat some damn food.  
> 

Sherlock came home with a few metal jugs and a Styrofoam case of sorts, piling it all into the kitchen. He then paused, turned to Watson with his mouth hanging open with words about to spill out, then he closed the floodgates and turned back to his work.

♫ ♫ ♫

Sherlock shushed Watson whenever he tried to ask what he was doing, and complained when he turned on the telly, so he decided to go out and get some groceries himself.  
He popped by the nearest market and grabbed easy things like cereal, milk, crackers, and some sweets. He brought everything back inside, having eaten half the box of crackers on the way back. Sherlock was still busy in the kitchen, a light haze running through their flat.  
“Why’s the air hazy?” Watson asked, coughing lightly as he put the groceries away quickly to escape the danger zone that was their kitchen. And most of their flat.  
“Put this on.” Sherlock said, his voice muffled by the newly seen gas mask he had over his face. He handed one matching his own to Watson, who stared down at it.  
“Are you serious?” He asked, coughing again. He realized this was his answer and put it on, knowing Sherlock wanted to talk to him if he gave him a way to stay in the room a tad longer.

“The murderer created the perfect serum to kill someone, but no one has died yet. Not of natural causes, anyway.” Sherlock mumbled, his voice sounding rattily and robotic through the mask.  
“Are you suggesting that the murder on the news is unrelated to this… injection one?”  
“Yes, that is precisely what I’m suggesting.” Sherlock said, his eyes locked on his work. He turned his head toward Watson, keeping his eyes where his hands were, only quickly flicking them up to see Watson’s expression. This told him everything.  
“I know you’re skeptical and want your proof, but this one had no injections and a totally different tactic. And a motive.”  
“What if it is the same guy just trying to piss you off?” Watson asked, making Sherlock pause for a moment before he quickly resumed his precise, bustling movements.  
“I’d doubt that. That’d be tremendously unavailing.” Sherlock mumbled, then added; “And ambitious. That’d be quite a development of events – do you think that’s really what’s happening?” Sherlock asked, turning his attention to Watson fully for more than a few seconds, not watching his hands as he continued to fiddle with whatever it was he was making.  
“I’d doubt it myself, but it’s a possibility I suppose.” Watson said, having wished he’d kept his mouth shut – Sherlock was so open to any idea plausible it was almost frightening.  
“I’ll keep today’s murder in mind to try to remember it well – in case a connecting event comes to light.” Sherlock said, focusing solely on his work now. Watson nodded, leaving the room to see the sky had fallen dark and the stars twinkled around the clouds – he hadn’t noticed on the way back from the store, but it had definitely been dark for a while. He wandered up to his room, calling out a “ _goodnight_ ” to his flat mate, getting a “ _ditto_ ” in return. He crawled into bed that night, not hearing the violin once.  
But of course, that didn’t mean it wasn’t played. Sherlock had heard Watson tossing and turning in the night.

He quietly made his way up toward John’s room, stood just outside the door, and quietly played the same song once more for John.  
The tossing stopped. Sherlock played quietly and smoothly; hearing repeated deep, relaxed sighs from John’s room. The sound was a happy sound to Sherlock and gave him enough peace to sleep minimal hours that night – many more than previous nights.  
In fact, he slept a full six hours, something he hadn’t done consecutively in weeks.

♫ ♫ ♫


	4. Of The Old Oak Tree

Watson woke the next morning to the sound of gentle pacing in the lounge. He made his groggy way to the washroom, ignoring Sherlock’s discontentedness for the moment to go freshen up. When he emerged, he was greeted once more with gentle pacing. He accepted the fact that Sherlock was waiting for him so he could rant and went out – Mrs. Hudson had put away Sherlock’s skull, as it was “rude to have out in the open like that”.  
Watson went straight to the kitchen to put the kettle on, and was instantly bombarded with questions.  
“I’ve had a realization this morning, John,” Sherlock started, now anxiously standing next to Watson, back to the counter, leaning into it slightly. “The man who was injected was, in fact, a test subject – but not a willing one. I considered his recent medical history.” He followed Watson over towards where they kept tea bags and cups, his mind racing almost as fast as his eyes.  
“He had been to the hospital for wisdom tooth removal – quite late, but he had. I took this date into mind along with the one on which he was found dead, and had a realization. John, he was forcibly used as a test subject. Someone had snuck into his room while he was unconscious and injected him with it, causing a slow deterioration of his insides.”  
This made Watson turn towards him fully, almost dropping a cup on the ground. “You mean to say… the deterioration period was slow? But you said the stuff you made was fast acting. Or at least implied it.”  
“Exactly, John. So, what did he do to make it so slow? He couldn’t’ve watered it down, that doesn’t work – he had to weaken it. I looked at some different acids, and how they react with stomach fluid as well as how they deteriorate inside one’s body.” Sherlock said, realizing this sounded tremendously concerning as Watson’s face contorted in pained worry. “I was safe, I only ingested a small amount – nowhere near sickening, nevermind fatal-”  
“Sherlock Holmes, you were meant not to do this kind of thing!” Watson yelled, his face contorting in temporary anger.  
“Yes, I know, but I was completely safe. I took every precaution. As it turns out, there’s one acid that when mixed correctly is weak, and strengthens within the bowels because of the internal mix-up of bile in there.” Sherlock started pacing again, hearing the kettle start to rumble gently.  
“So, the poor man was injected against his will and had no idea until he had bad stomach pain and then died?” Watson asked, somewhat horrified by the thought of it, but at the same time intrigued. Why would someone do such a thing?  
“Precisely. And once it got strengthened it got stronger – doubling in strength every second. He had called one of his friends, speaking of an upset stomach and how he wasn’t going to be able to make it to their meet-up the next day, and died within the hour.” Sherlock said.  
“Have you gone to the friend to ask what the guy said to him?” Watson asked, finally pouring the hot water over the teabags in the cups.  
“I’ve only just got up three hours ago, John. What do you expect of me?” Sherlock asked, going over the couch to thump down quickly as he had finished ranting.

Watson sat down in his usual chair, wondering why Sherlock elected to sit down rather than rush out the door to meet up with the man’s friend. He quickly realized, however, that Sherlock was still thinking. His eyes were flicking back and forth through his silence, his mind clearly processing and throwing images in front of his eyes.  
Watson sat there in silence, waiting for him to be done. But he stopped paying attention for a mere moment, having blanked out, and when he came back to Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.  
“Sherlock?” He called out; no response. He threw his head back, rolling his eyes as he stood. He put down his cup, going towards the door. He threw his jacket on, pulling his shoes onto his feet as he hopped out the door to hail a cab. Sherlock had been speedy and purposefully left as soon as Watson wasn’t paying attention; that much was clear.  
He called Lestrade to ask where the friend’s house was and told the cabbie to go to that address.

He arrived in good time, knocking on the door and requesting access to the man’s flat. But he got no response over the mic and no buzz to let him in. He looked into the camera, smiling quickly and requesting to come in once more.  
Nothing. He frowned, calling Sherlock on his phone as he paced in front of the building, looking up at the windows. He realized then that he hadn’t let Lestrade finish what he was saying when he mentioned the address. Had the man died? Left for a vacation? Gone to a therapist after his friend’s death?

“John.” Sherlock answered, his voice low and rattily as usual. Watson huffed, frowning as he paced, looking up at the windows once more.  
“Sherlock, where are you? I’ve just been to the man’s friend’s house and he’s not here – where is he? Where are you? Why’d you leave without me?” Watson asked, his concern coming out as anger.  
“I knew you wouldn’t like what I’m doing, so I elected to leave you behind.” Sherlock answered promptly, making Watson stop his pacing to process what he’d just heard.  
“You left me behind because you knew I wouldn’t approve? Sherlock, I’m doing this for your safety!”  
“I don’t need a babysitter; I haven’t died yet, have I? I did fine for years before you came along, and now that you’re here to see what I’m doing it’s like I suddenly need watching over! I’m absolutely fine!”  
“Sherlock, you almost killed yourself!” Watson yelled, but when he got looks from the people around him he quickly turned and started speed walking towards the flat angrily. “There was blood everywhere.” He whispered into the phone, his feet swiping briskly across the pavement.  
“Controllably so, John.” Sherlock responded – he was speaking slowly now. Watson was angered by this for some reason.

“Sherlock Holmes, come back to the flat this instant!” Watson yelled into the phone.  
“I’m already at the flat.” Sherlock replied, “I’m with the man’s friend at our flat. I went to get him and bring him back here. I thought you’d be here when I got back.”

Sherlock hung up before Watson could yell at him any further about how he could’ve just said so and spared the arguing.  
Watson hailed a cab once more, getting a ride back. He mumbled to himself what a waste of money it was on the way, his body tense.

When he walked inside he stomped up the stairs while taking his coat off rather than after because he was very cross; he wanted to yell in Sherlock’s face about how inconsiderate he’d been, but when he got up he saw Sherlock listening quietly to the man who was tearing up in Watson’s chair.  
“I swear, he sounded normal – his voice sounded… normal. He was obviously in discomfort, but he was never one to let on he was in pain or that he was upset. I thought it was just another bad headache – until he mentioned his stomach. I debated food poisoning, but he was careful about his food. Paranoid, even, that someone had poisoned it or something.”  
“Poisoned it?” Sherlock asked, his eyes not even glancing Watson’s way as he made his way into the living room to take in what was happening around him.  
“Yes – he was always the type to fear death… if he went to a restaurant he brought a thermometer to make sure it was to temperature, and took small doses of certain poisons daily to try to build up an immunity…”  
Sherlock didn’t respond, silently begging him to continue.  
“He’d grown up around hospitals and morgues – his mom was a nurse, and his dad was a police officer. He heard dark chatter all the time – poisoning, murder; fatal illness – it made him paranoid about dying. He heard about so much death and sickness – it traumatized him.”  
“I see… and then he got stomach pains – you were slightly suspicious of this?” Sherlock asked, digging further as his mind raced – Watson could see it in the way his fingers were tapping slightly under his chin, his eyes steady on his subject. How his ears were most likely burning with the sounds he was picking up, and his nose was itching with the cologne the man was wearing.  
“Yes – I thought he’d finally gotten a stomach bug – but he seemed much too calm. He knew he wasn’t sick, he knew something was up – but I didn’t pick up on that. I thought maybe he was just having a bad time and didn’t want to come see me, but…”  
“Right, yes, thank you Jordan. You’re free to go. Here’s some money for a coffee, or a drink.” Sherlock said, dropping various, somewhat useless coins into the man, Jordan’s, hand. Watson frowned, then handed him a tenner.  
“Sorry about him… and for your loss. It’s a terrible thing…” Watson said. Jordan nodded his thanks, trying to smile before he left, but his face ended up falling into a desperately upset expression.

“Sherlock.” Watson said, walking into the kitchen. “What about that would I not have liked? Were you just pulling my leg?”  
“I thought you may not have liked the fact that before you got back I interrogated him rather thoroughly – his eyes weren’t wet from tears of sadness. I’d had him stare into a flashlight so I could read his mind-processing speed and such, see how fast his reflexes were. He wasn’t too sharp.”  
“What else did you do?” Watson asked, making Sherlock turn around with a confused look.  
“I didn’t do anything else – I thought the light would’ve bothered you.”  
“No… that’s fine, it’s just a light.” Watson frowned, following him into the kitchen. He eyed up the tall, too-thin detective in front of him, his frown deepening. It’s just about sweltering outside for this time of year and here he is in a full suit – for show for Jordan, possibly, but not likely. After all, he wore a sheet to greet the queen. He stared at his forearms through the suit sleeves for a moment, squinting to see if there were dark spots or wetness.  
There wasn’t.

“Are you sure you aren’t… not telling me something?” Watson asked, his eyes widening as Sherlock put the kettle on – why was he doing this so frequently now?  
“Honestly, John, what do you think I’ve done? Murdered someone? I’m still here; I haven’t committed suicide! Besides, I’ve already told you what I dreaded to.”  
“About the light? Last time you were ashamed was when you smashed up your face – and you thought making that acid was fine!”  
“But this time I could’ve potentially hurt someone else – I thought that would be more important to you.” Sherlock said, fumbling around the kitchen to get cups, saucers, teabags, and biscuits.  
“Sherlock, I don’t care about anyone more than you!” He yelled, pausing when this statement made Sherlock stop in his tracks, his eyes falling to the side slightly to stare at the wall blankly. His hands were up in a cupboard above his head, and his body seemed stiff. “I mean, I wouldn’t expect you to hurt anyone purposefully – not too badly anyway… But you will hurt yourself, and I don’t want you to. You’re my best friend.”  
Sherlock looked at him now, his eyebrows drawn together in an almost sad way, but his mouth was smiling. He looked almost remorseful. But he quickly looked back towards the kettle as it started rumbling – they reorganized themselves and finished the tea, Sherlock leaving the room to play violin as Watson took over.  
Sherlock played a faster song this time than he usually did – a happier song. Usually he played melancholy songs – songs of the broken soul. But now he played a song you’d hear at a party, or a wedding.

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock said quietly before John came out of the kitchen with two cups of tea on saucers, each with a couple biscuits.


	5. Please Let The Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Scenes with minor detail of self harm in the italic section.

John awoke the next morning with a happy feeling – he wasn’t sure why, but he did. Sherlock knew why, though. He’d been up most of the night playing that song again – he found that the slower and softer he played it the happier John was in his sleep. He even opened John’s door slightly to play it more clearly to him – and to see what his sleeping reaction was. John just smiled in his sleep; the creases making his face look lighter somehow.  
Sherlock, however, was in a foul mood. He had read over the rules on the fridge – every time he did so he got disgruntled. He did try to follow them a little bit for John’s ease of mind, but he hated them. John sat in his chair, his hair still stringy and damp from having freshened up, and opened the newspaper that was nicely placed on the table beside him.  
“Anything new?” John asked, not bothering to glance at Sherlock.  
“Painfully. Lestrade called – Jordan was found in the same state of his friend this morning after having received a panicked call from him – he said he had a very upset stomach and he knew it wasn’t from something he’d eaten. He had the puncture wounds all over him as well – a much less irritated one on his stomach. Hardly noticeable if you weren’t looking for it.”  
“Did you go take a look this morning?” John asked, raising an eyebrow at him over the newspaper.  
“No, not worth it. I just had Lestrade give me the details – I need to be here… something else is stirring – something strange.”  
“What?” John questioned, but got no answer as Sherlock promptly got up and left the room. John was then left to sit in his confused silence. He continued reading the paper; his eyes wandering down to a headline – Rapid Serial Murdering – John put down the paper and ran towards the window to see Sherlock getting into a taxi. Wonderful – now he was left to look up the details, as he was sure Sherlock would’ve asked him to if he wasn’t in such a hurry.

Sherlock returned two hours later with his eye considerably more swollen once more – the bruising had gone down but the swelling had returned. John just stared at him, then got up to get some frozen peas. He handed them to Sherlock, who was busy looking through a microscope and wouldn’t take them. John rolled his eyes, holding the frozen peas to Sherlock’s swollen face.  
“Aren’t you going to tell me about what you saw? I looked it up – three more men were killed. But this time not with that acid stuff – so different guy, right? Must’ve been. No one would be that rash – to just kill more people without using the same tactic – especially if it’s for testing.”  
“They were each missing various organs – liver, left lung, appendix, and shockingly the frontal lobe. None of which were damaged by the acid.” Sherlock said. John now took the time to look at what was in the Petri dish under the microscope – it was a lump of some kind of flesh it seemed.  
“So… different guy with an organ fetish then?” John jokingly concluded, making Sherlock hum his amusement.  
“Quite the contrary, John. Same man, taking these organs that were unaffected to see how he could affect them with the acid at all – and then how to maneuver the acid to those areas for a more confusing, less pin-pointed murder.”  
“Why doesn’t he just inject oxygen between the big toe and the second toe? Disguise it as a heart attack?” John asks, not understanding why someone would go to these lengths.  
“Because he’s trying too hard – same reason why he went to three different people for the organs instead of taking them all from one. They’re large organs we’d notice went missing, so why get them from three different people?”  
John thought about this for a moment, and then looked at Sherlock as they both paused. “Different blood types?” John asked, causing Sherlock to suddenly stand, the peas no longer in contact with his face to John’s dismay as he started bustling around the lounge, his hands in the air as he exclaimed a few times and spoke gibberish for a good two minutes.  
“Why would the guy even want different blood types?” John asked, following him into the lounge after he’d spoken like a crazy man for long enough. He’d made tea in that time – that’s just about a new record for how long Sherlock spoke to himself at hyper speed.  
“Different blood types are just different enough that if you end up with the wrong kind in you you could get very sick or die – I have two ideas. He’s either collecting it to put in his acid or he’s testing his acid on these blood types – maybe they had different iron levels too, that could affect his acid – maybe he got into their medical records and – oh, oh – this one is clever, this one has been planning this for years!”  
“What?” John questioned, his eyebrows raising as he put down the tea and handed Sherlock the partially thawed peas. Sherlock held them to his face as his eyes darted back and forth, his mind running a million miles a second.  
“He must work in a hospital – access to medical records, to patients for minor testing – but then why would he kill those two men? Why would he do that if – and the extra puncture wounds…”  
“Maybe he’s just insane.”  
“Not insane – no, a genius! He’s thrown us so far off his trail because of little pointers that lead nowhere – the extra puncture wounds, the two victims that were unwilling and inevitably died, the recent organ-stealing murders – it’s all just been throwing us off.”  
“Off what?” John asked as Sherlock bustled towards the door, throwing the peas onto the couch as he went. John glanced down at the tea he’d just made, but quickly decided to follow Sherlock.  
“Off him! We’re going to the hospital – call Lestrade.”

They made it to the hospital in record time taking a cab and they ran inside with Lestrade on their tail as they asked for access to medical records of all the patients that had been in within the last six months. The lady begrudgingly agreed to take them to the file room and have the file keeper guide them through the patients.  
“What is it we’re looking for?” Lestrade asked as Sherlock bluntly asked the file keeper to leave the room. He did after being ordered to do so by Lestrade, saying to give them five minutes.  
“Deaths – hospital deaths, relocated critical patients, causes of sudden illness – I think one of the doctors is the murderer.”  
“Are you serious?” Lestrade asked, looking at Sherlock as his face didn’t so much as twitch a smile – he was dead serious.  
“It does make sense if you think about it – he’s just been misleading us this entire time.”  
“What’s the motive? Who’s he trying to get?” Lestrade asked as Sherlock clicked through so many records at a time John could hardly read the name of the patient before he’d moved on.  
“Not sure.” Sherlock replied, his eyes flicking back and forth when suddenly he grinned, closed the program, stood, and left the room.  
“Sherlock!” Lestrade called, running after him. John thanked the file keeper and said they’d be done, apologizing for Sherlock’s rudeness. The file keeper was fine though, and appreciated John’s apology.  
Sherlock refused to answer any of Lestrade’s questions, but as soon as John and him got into a cab and Lestrade was gone he started talking.

“Medical records – all of the patients that have reached sudden critical condition had blood type O – the rarest of them all. They were shipped off to a specialized doctoring unit somewhere else – specializing in bowel malfunctions primarily.”  
“Wow.” John said, nodding as he looked out the window.  
“They were all shipped there, but they hardly found anything wrong with them other than too much acid in their bowels – they gave them antioxidants and still they died within a week.”  
John opened his mouth, looking over at Sherlock, but decided to close it again as he saw his swelled up, concentrated gaze locked outside the windshield.

They got back to their flat in a hurry, Holmes starting to bustle about. Mrs. Hudson had turned up the heat in their flat – John took off his coat and sat down in his chair, looking outside to see fall weather and feeling as if it was summer in this heat. He went to the thermostat to turn it down, coming back to dispose of their cooled tea.  
Holmes also took his coat off and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, pacing through the lounge with his fingers steepled beneath his chin. John came back and stared at his exposed arms for a moment, expression dropping from his face for a moment before he tore his eyes away and sat down in his chair.

“Sherlock?” Watson had called, and hearing no response he checked Sherlock’s room. No one – not in the kitchen or lounge either. His coat was still on the rack so he wasn’t out. His violin was sitting next to the couch he’d have his hissy fits on, and his tea was left alone to get cold.  
“Sherlock? Where are you?” Watson asked loudly, looking in all the rooms once more – he hadn’t thought to check the bathroom though. He knocked on the door. “Sherlock, you in there?” He asked, tapping the door again with his knuckles.  
“Y-yes, John, I am in here – please do not come in.” Watson heard from the other side of the door – his voice sounded soft and shaky, more emotional than Watson had ever heard it sincerely. He often faked things like emotion for cases but outside of that he was always quite monotone.  
“Why, what’s going on?” Watson asked, knocking again – he wasn’t sure why, but he was getting quite panicked.  
“I-I’m running an-an-an experiment, d-don’t mind me.” He heard – he then tried the door handle. It was locked, of course. He rammed his shoulder into it.  
“Sherlock, open the door, what are you doing in the washroom for so long?”  
“E-e-experiment, I’m f-f-f-f-fine-ine…”  
“You don’t sound fine – what have you done to yourself? Are you on drugs?” Watson asked, banging on the door again, then finally stepping back to kick the door in, causing it to break and swing open.  
Red. Red everywhere – there was red everywhere. In a couple jars, and all over the floor. And all over Sherlock.  
“I-I-I’m f-fine…” Sherlock repeated, his eyes closed and his skin white as a sheet – Watson stood there in shock, the sight of this much blood on his friend making him feel sick. “I-I was just…” Sherlock said, his body movement stopping suddenly.  
“Sherlock!” Watson called out as Sherlock slumped to the floor in a bloody heap.

John shivered in his chair, rubbing his temples as Holmes paid no mind and continued his thinking, pacing, and steepling. “You feeling alright, John?” Holmes suddenly asked, John realizing he’d stopped pacing to stare at John.  
“Yeah, fine, why?”  
“You’ve suddenly gone pale.” Holmes said, eyeing him up quickly. “Are you getting sick?”  
“I don’t think so.” John said, picking up a newspaper and clearing his throat, starting to read over it. Holmes stared for another moment, and then continued his frantic, thoughtful pacing.


	6. That Shines On Me

Holmes did not play the violin that night. He sat outside of John’s room, listening to him toss and turn and breathe heavily at constant intervals. Holmes knew that he often suffered from night terrors after a long day – increasingly so after Holmes’ incident.  
If he became overly stressed he slept restlessly – his mind unable to relax as his body did. Holmes often thought of going in to wake him, but he did. He just sat outside, listening to his panicked breath and his waking moments after he’d sat up as he calmed himself down, laying back to try once more.  
Holmes wasn’t sure what had happened to John earlier that evening – he’d gone pale as he watched Holmes pace and denied feeling ill. Holmes wasn’t quite sure what had happened – there was nothing shocking happening so it couldn’t’ve been that. He wasn’t easily scared – the last time he’d seen him so pale was when he’d woken up in the hospital – John had blended in with the overly-clean white walls of the hospital. Holmes could hardly see him with his blurry vision when he woke.

Holmes eventually went to his room, realizing if he fell asleep outside of John’s room and didn’t wake before John it might cause awkward conversation. So, he went to his room and lay there, still faintly hearing the sudden creak of John’s bed when he awoke every now and again.  
Holmes got hardly any sleep – maybe two hours. He couldn’t sleep any further when he heard John finally give in and get up just before six, heading to the shower.  
Holmes got up and sat in the lounge, his feet outstretched onto the low table – he was in a rather uncomfortable position, but he was thinking, so he didn’t notice. He was thinking over John – it was the only time he had to do so. Once John was out of the washroom he’d ask about the case and what he’d come up with. Of course, he’d come up with plenty before John had gone to bed and was saving it for this morning to spill out.  
But, why had John gone pale like that? There was no feasible explanation – he wasn’t getting sick or he’d have only gotten up this morning to be sick at the toilet – but he was clearly freshening up. Holmes just couldn’t wrap his head around it – it was something he was never quite perfect with; human emotion. He himself couldn’t mimic it perfectly – and that was purely because he didn’t know it well enough. He could cry, he could stutter, but he couldn’t feel. At least, not to that extent.  
He felt for John, though. He felt happy around John – even when John was getting after him for breaking the fridge rules. He felt sad for John when he was tossing and turning and he couldn’t do anything to help – well, he could, but he wouldn’t because he didn’t want John to know he cared. It was a weakness – nothing more.  
Caring was not an advantage – it was just a way for people to get to you. And for Holmes, that’s all people wanted to do; get to him. There was nothing that would please others more than to find out he was human after all.

John came out of the washroom and slumped into his chair, his shirt clinging to his damp skin and his shoulders being dripped upon by his hair. Holmes frowned and stood, pacing as he had been the night previous.  
“I’ve decided this man is mad.” Holmes said, making John snort.  
“Well of course he is, the bloke keeps murdering people – it’s terrible.”  
“Yes, of course, but we still have no motive. He can’t just be insane – people aren’t just insane in public and then not put into an asylum or something. He has a reason to be doing this.”  
“To throw people off? To be fair he hasn’t been caught yet – we haven’t found DNA samples or anything.” John said, making Holmes pause for but a moment before he continued with his usual smart-ass way of sharing his knowledge.  
“Maybe, but that can’t be the only reason – everyone has a reason to kill someone, it’s not leisure – it gives you no satisfaction unless you have something against the person.”  
“Or if you’re insane.” John said, but Holmes ignored him.  
“So, this man must have something against every single one of these victims – but do they have a common friend? A common doctor? A common classmate?”  
“Well if the guy is so smart maybe it’s classmate – maybe these are all the people who were better than him.” John shrugged, having no incentive to make tea as he knew Holmes would soon dart toward the door.  
“No, no, not that – that’s not enough for this man, they did something to him; something personal… but what?”  
“Yeah, what’s enough for him to make an acid, then not use it as he just went around stealing organs from these poor guys, and then go back to making acid?”  
“Go back?” Holmes asked, pausing.  
“Yeah, Lestrade texted me – another injected guy but his bowels weren’t affected.”  
“Why didn’t he text me?” Holmes asked, frowning.  
“I told him to text me if he found anything so you wouldn’t go off on your own.” John said, staring harshly into Holmes’ – it was a stare down. They stayed like this for much longer than was comfortable – Holmes finally folded and went to put his jacket on.  
“Did he say which organs were affected?” Holmes called back up to John, who was quickly trying to follow him – putting a jacket on and hoping it wasn’t cold enough for his hair to freeze to his head.  
“No, he said none seemed to be affected.”  
“None?” Holmes asked, turning to him briefly before bursting out the door. “Taxi!” He called, throwing his arm up in the air as John followed him quickly, pulling his shoe around his heel as he did so.

“No organs were affected?” Holmes asked, seeming confused.  
“No, the guy seemed to have died from a heart attack – injection spots all over him again but no poison administered.”  
“Did he do your trick? With the air between the toes?”  
“Didn’t ask – thought you might want to check it out first.” John said, wondering why Holmes was asking him so many questions – like he would know half as much as Holmes even if he was told all the details the murderer knew.

They got to the office and Holmes immediately took his jacket off – knowing he’d be staying a while – and rolled up his sleeves, putting latex gloves over his fingers. John tried hard not to look at his forearms; Holmes had been stitched up crudely to make sure he’d stop losing blood. That made the scars jagged and lopsided, and painstakingly obvious.  
John fixated his eyes on the victim, going directly to the feet to check for any sign of oxygen injection.  
“Got it,” John nodded, and then looked back up at Lestrade – he would look anywhere but at Holmes. “How many other puncture wounds?”  
“Eight,” Lestrade said, frowning at John as John couldn’t help but look towards Holmes as his face lit up.  
“How many were on the others?”  
“Uh, I dunno, plenty – I could check for exact numbers if you want-”  
“No thanks, I’ll ask Molly.” Holmes said, bursting through the door and heading down the hallway to find Molly – she’d know. And Holmes had seen John go pale again so he was hoping if he got there fast enough he could quickly ask Molly what she thought – someone who felt things severely should know.

“Molly; you look lovely today.” Holmes said as he walked in, smiling at her.  
“Thanks… what do you want?” Molly asked, her smile sinking into a half-grimace.  
“How do you know I want something?” Holmes asked, raising an eyebrow at her as he paused.  
“You never compliment me – I figure you want something from me… So I thought I’d get it out of the way.” She replied, her hands flexing awkwardly at her sides as she held eye contact with Holmes.  
“I want your opinion on something;” Holmes started, reengaging his stride to go along the length of the room. “John has been going pale recently – for seemingly no reason. He did so last night and again just now. I’m not sure why – you’d think he’d go red in the face because it’s been quite hot in our flat, but he does the exact opposite – is he ill?”  
Molly mulled it over, her eyes glancing at the scars on his forearms with wide eyes – they weren’t normal cut marks, they were down the length of each arm – from elbow crook to wrist bone. Molly frowned – so did Holmes, as she herself went pale. He tried to find what she was looking at by turning around – but he saw nothing there of interest.  
“Are you ill as well?” He asked, his voice coming around concerned.  
“No – no, Sherlock, it’s your arms – what happened?”  
Holmes paused, looking down at his arms, then immediately rolling down his sleeves as his own face went dead. “It was an experiment – nevermind that. I have a question about the victims now.” He said, making Molly hesitantly nod. “How many puncture wounds were on each?”  
“Well – that first guy had thirteen. His friend there had twelve – the others had… uhh, in order of being found, ten, eleven, and nine.”  
“And that last man was eight – he’s counting? How did you not notice this?”  
“Guess it’s hard to spot in this layout-”  
“John!” Holmes yelled, walking out of the room. He poked his head back to the doorway to thank Molly – John had just reached the door by this time with Lestrade.  
“What? What did you find?” He asked, and Holmes grinned so wide you’d think his mouth was being stretched open with hooks.  
“He’s counting down – six more to go. Any calls, Lestrade?” Holmes asked, and Lestrade checked his phone.  
“Uhh… no, no calls.”  
“Good.” Holmes nodded, his long legs starting astride once more, heading down the hallway with John on his heels asking frantic questions. How were they going to catch him, what does that information have to do with it, he just didn’t understand. How did he know the cut-open victims had puncture wounds at all? In fact, Holmes didn’t know – it was a hunch. Just as it usually was.

They got back to their flat in a hurry, Holmes slumping onto the couch – he was just starting to feel a twinge of exhaustion.  
“What does counting down do for you?” John asked, standing beside his chair in anticipation of Holmes’s answer.  
“It’s a timer – it’s counting down, when it runs out we’ll get no more information and the game will be over – I lose. No rematch, no restart, no reset. Done.”  
“Wait – we’re just under half way then.”  
“Hardly – we have until next Friday.”  
“What? How do you know?”  
“It’ll be Friday the Thirteenth.”

Watson had waited at Sherlock’s side in the hospital, unable to sleep at the sight of his friend being so damaged – by his own hands as well. In the army he’d had friends die in front of him – but not like this.  
Sherlock’s heart monitor was beeping slowly – Watson fantasized it was because of the lack of nicotine patches. But he knew it was because his heart was giving out ever so slowly – Sherlock’s breathing was hardly normal. It was slow and shallow, then quick, then suddenly deep – as if he were smelling something – and then back to slow.  
Watson didn’t think about this much though, since there was a bag of blood being filtered into his friend and that, along with the morphine, could’ve very well been doing that. He wasn’t on a breathing machine, but that was upon Mycroft’s request – he said he’d be fine in time.  
Watson wasn’t so sure – he’d cut in at least half an inch – he’d severed quite a few veins and arteries. But Mycroft was certain that Sherlock would be okay – he insisted harshly and got his way as he usually did.

But Watson was a doctor. An army doctor that knew when there was no hope. And this seemed to be one of those cases – sporadic breathing, splotchy, pale skin with severely dark wounds, the heart monitor going opposite the breathing – not that he knew that from being an army doctor, but he figured something was off with that.  
Sherlock breathed slowly and his heart rate slowly increased – then he’d suddenly breathing fast, have one slow breath, and his heart rate would slow right back down to a slower-than-average pace. Then the cycle would repeat – it looped every ten minutes or so. Watson was sure it wasn’t healthy, but there was nothing he could do.  
He was eventually encouraged to go home – his friend was in a diagnosed coma and wasn’t expected to wake for at least a week if not more.  
So, he went home – and then, within thirty minutes, received a call that Sherlock had awoken. In a panic – he woke up in a panic and screamed profanities at the doctors, ripping IVs out of his arms and saying he would not calm down until he knew Watson was coming back. So, Watson talked to him on the phone.

“Sherlock.” Watson said, his voice unsteady from the relief that his friend had woken up after four days of deadly sleep.  
“John, you have to return immediately. There are so many people that think they’re intelligent – that think they know more than me, but they’re wrong. They’re wrong Watson. You have to return or I’ll break out and come home.”  
“Sherlock, they’re just trying to keep you alive.” Watson said, feeling his throat tighten – he wasn’t going to cry, he felt as if he was going to be sick. His throat would tighten, and then within five minutes he’d be sick – and if not, then he wasn’t to be sick until the next throat-tightening experience.  
“Well I can do that too-”  
“No, you can’t Sherlock.” Watson interrupted, feeling his body become tense with anger, sadness, and relief that Sherlock was back to his normal self – to his usual state of mind without the confused stuttering and… confusion. “You can’t take care of yourself – you proved that when you…”  
“When I what, John? Cut my arms open to bleed for a while? It was an experiment.”  
“You’re an idiot.” Watson said, his voice betraying him as it cracked with fury. “You were on the verge of death – your heart stopped in the ambulance! They had to revive you! Sherlock, if you’d died…” Watson said, his throat tightening further – maybe it was because he was going to cry.  
“You would’ve carried on.” Sherlock said – he wasn’t kidding. Watson heard it in his voice – he believed Watson would just carry on.  
“Sherlock, I wouldn’t – If you’d died… I don’t know what I would’ve done. Don’t…”  
“John, we’re hardly friends. We’re flat mates – we look at crimes together. You’re intelligent enough I can tolerate you – now come to the hospital.” Holmes said, leaving Watson taken aback. He refused and said that when he was dismissed he could come back. Then he hung up while Holmes started rage ranting.

That was precisely the moment that Watson felt nothing for Holmes. It was as if he’d been purged from his life suddenly and he couldn’t care less – Watson felt numb. Something about the combination of what Holmes had done and what he had said had put him off – he was angry.  
He went to work on writing out a list of rules – he wasn’t careful to make sure Holmes would like them, or approve of them, or be able to follow them. He wrote things out that would keep his flat mate from getting either one of them – or both of them – arrested.  
And upon Holmes’s return, Watson enforced these rules strictly and without restraint. He was angry, and he was letting it rule him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Further self-harm content in italics and hints at it throughout this part.


	7. Shine On The One I Love

John had listened to Holmes’s babbling all morning, his mind half dozed as he had gotten a rough sleep the night previous.  
Holmes played violin again, but this time he found it agitated John. Instead of calming his stressed repositionings it doubled them – tripled even. This puzzled Holmes greatly as he had no idea what had happened to cause this. And it was consistently only when he was playing that he became more agitated. When he stopped, he let out a long sigh and calmed down to his usual restlessness. It bothered Holmes that he could no longer calm John into a blissful sleep. He quite enjoyed watching the creases fade from John’s forehead and the smile form on his lips.

Now he was pacing and babbling on and on relentlessly – there was too much going on in his mind. There was this intricate series of murders that was taking much too long for him so solve and John’s flip-flopping behavior that was driving him mad. He had to get to the bottom of at least one within daylight hours or he’d be driven to pure madness. No more of this half-way crap.  
He decided he’d work on the murder for the day- to try to avoid arousing the suspicion of John, since he was quite good at picking up social cues, and any sort of personal behavior that Holmes thought he was much too good at mimicking to be found out. Turns out he wasn’t good enough for John though.

He tried to find a motive, but found nothing once more – it was hard when he didn’t know who the murderer was. Counting – that was all he’d found. A backwards count, downwards towards a final goal.  
It’s a massive game of hide and seek. How are you to know, however, who is counting in a room full of so many people? If the counter was not pointed out to you, then how are you to know whom it is? You must find where he is, and if not that, then follow where he’d been by following his path of destruction without getting in front of it – hearing the cries of people being found, asking them questions if you can but most likely they won’t tell you anything. Then you continue, hoping to find a pattern so you may be able to find the perfect spot that they’ll get stuck. Then you win.

John arose much later in the morning than he usually did – he was a wreck. There were dark circles under his eyes – darker than the receding colours on Holmes’s face – and his eyelids wouldn’t open quite fully. Holmes watched him go by towards the washroom with confusion – his mind strayed toward why the song upset him now rather than soothed.  
No, he could not think of this now. He put his fingers to his temples and rubbed small circles, going back to the murderer. Motive – what was it? You don’t go around killing people for nothing, taking out organs for nothing. That acid was intricate – you don’t make it for nothing. This was thought out thoroughly, and Holmes had yet to find where it began. If he could just figure out an order – other than the reversed counting – he could possibly move forward.  
Was the first victim an experiment, as it seemed? Or just a clumsy murder? Or a purposeful cue – had there been murders previous he did not know about because there were no signs of artificially-caused death? He ruled that out for now to keep things simple. He wondered how such a person could come up with something so exact – reverse counting, logged with injection sites, purposefully left for him to find – and over what time period? A month? A year?

John emerged from the bathroom, buttoning up the top of his shirt as he came in the room. He glanced at Holmes, then went to the kitchen to make tea without a word. “John,” Holmes said, standing and going toward him. “I’ve reached a dead end, I need your view on things – a second opinion of sorts.” He said, watching John’s back as he went about his business silently. “John?” He repeated, walking toward him and leaning around to see his face.  
It was blank. It was as if Holmes wasn’t there – as if his words weren’t really reaching him. He poked him, earning himself a glare so full of irritation it made him stand up straight. “I’m going out.” John said, leaving the tea half-made as he went toward the door, grabbing his jacket and leaving without another word, having Holmes’s confused words follow him out.

Where could he have gone? His phone buzzed, temporarily distracting him as he grabbed it out and saw a message from Lestrade. Something about John messaging to say to give him updates directly again a while back – and that there’d been another murder.  
That was fast, is all Sherlock could think. Friday the thirteenth was his expected end date, and that wasn’t for two weeks, and if there’d been another murder then there were only six more victims now to be killed over twelve days.

He caught a cab over and went in for the run-over from Molly. Seven puncture wounds for the seventh victim – the middle-point. Molly slipped in a “how are you and John?” that Holmes ignored extremely effectively. As he was walking out she stopped him, standing between him in the door, making him pause. He stared down at her as her eyes locked on the table just behind him.  
“Sherlock,” She says slowly, taking a deep breath, making Holmes roll his eyes at the extremity of her speech speed. “How are you and John?”  
“Fine, thank you.” He said, trying to walk around her, only to be cut off again.  
“Sherlock.” She said, looking up at him now. “How are you and John?” She asked, making Holmes’s brain whirr into action – how were John and him? What had happened? He had been quite cold that morning; almost hostile.  
“I’m not sure.” He said, not trying to walk around her anymore. He figured she’d step aside when she’d gotten the answer she wanted.  
“Have you spoken to him today?” She asked, tilting her head downward slightly as she asked.  
“Well, yes, but he didn’t reply.” He promptly answered, nodding his head. Molly stared at him until he got it; John was upset with him. “Oh…” He hummed, looking to the side. “How did you know? I’m not acting any different, did John come in?” Holmes asked, frowning down at her.  
“You are acting differently. John’s not around and you’re like a live wire.” Molly said, her eyebrows coming together in concern. “You two are friends, and I’d hate to see that ruined over a case…” Molly said, holding her forearm.  
“The case? What does the case have to do with it?” Holmes asked, now stooping to see her face as she stared at the floor.  
“Well, you’re not listening to him much… from what it sounds like, anyway… I don’t know… I’m no good with relationships.” Molly smiled awkwardly, a nervous laugh accompanying it. “Not even friendships.” She hummed, looking off to the side.  
“Where has he gone?” Holmes asked, now walking around her, expecting her to follow. She did just that.  
“Not sure, haven’t heard from him. Only Greg has heard from him.” Molly replied, having to half-jog to keep up with Holmes’s brisk pace.  
“Greg?” He asked, giving her a funny look.  
“Lestrade.” Molly added, nodding. Holmes then nodded, ahh-ing as he remembered that was, in fact, his first name.

“If you hear from him you’ll let me know.” Holmes said, nodding toward Molly. “I’m not sure where he’s gone, but I’m about positive that he’s not back at the flat the way he left this morning.”  
“Right… let me know if you get ahold of him.” Molly nodded, her arms crossed in front of her as Holmes got into a cab and waved goodbye.  
Holmes sat in the cab and stewed about John, only a hint of a thought as to why he was stewing about this coming up. Something about this was bothering him more than usual, and he knew there was a reason – John was off somehow, not more than usual… but Holmes felt it more than any time previous.

He got back to the flat, walking in immediately and checking to see if he was there. Not a sign that he’d been back – kettle still idle on the stove and tea out of the cupboard, left on the counter untouched. He walked over and wondered how he could’ve left it half-finished. Surely it would’ve bothered him. Holmes would go to the length of even saying it would’ve “irked” him.  
Murders – he needed to concentrate on those. Another one, seven puncture wounds, the half-way point with twelve days remaining. What was he to do? He knew it was the acid, to the stomach. Molly had revealed that much in her report. But this was getting ridiculous – he knew it must be a doctor. That also explained his hunch about the wisdom teeth for the first victim. But what would this doctor have against all these people? Patients, even. It made no sense. There had to be a motive – no one kills for kicks. No one.

“Sherlock?” A voice called from down the hallway, followed by stiff and decently-paced heel clicks. “Sherlock, is that you?” Mrs. Hudson appeared in the kitchen, giving Holmes a look at the sight of him – she hadn’t seen him with a bruised-up face yet. She took a good look, then asked how he’d done it. He brushed her off.  
“Have you seen John?” He asked, stepping away from his position of leaning against the countertop. “He left this morning and hasn’t been back – left his tea undone.”  
“Haven’t seen him, no… are you two in a spat? I only ask because he left in quite a hurry; got in a cab and was on the phone, like you usually are, but he looked right bent about something.” Mrs. Hudson said, walking over to look out the window.  
“I’m not sure what happened – I must’ve done something, or he wouldn’t have done this, but I’m not sure what it is I’ve done.” Holmes said, shaking his head. “In the middle of this case, too, I need his help. He’s always got a unique look at things, I need that. This case is so… intricate.” Holmes said, holding his hands up to put emphasis on the last word.  
“I’m sure you’re having a ball, dear.” Mrs. Hudson smiled, patting him on the upper arm before leaving promptly. “Let me know if John comes back!” She called as she closed the door behind her.

When John comes back. Holmes’s mind whirred at the thought – why wouldn’t he come back? So far both Molly and Mrs. Hudson have made a hint as to him not returning for some unspoken reason. Holmes sat on the couch and stewed as before, all thoughts of the case temporarily forgotten in his childish ignorance. He’d simply hurt John’s feelings, but he hardly knew he’d done such a thing.  
Holmes sat on the couch into the wee hours of the morning, only realizing it was such a time when he realized John hadn’t returned, and then realized that it was much too late for a hope of him coming back before the Sun was to come back up. He sighed heavily, retreating to his bedroom for the night, only to lay on his back staring at the ceiling, wondering what on Earth had happened to cause such a reaction.

John was out getting groceries the following afternoon, the thought of 221B making his stomach turn. He didn’t want to go back to be bombarded with questions and not having time to give answers – it was a Q and A without the A, and it made his head spin to think about it. He thought of the case as he wandered aimlessly down the aisle, his eyes wandering without seeing.  
Why would a doctor go on a murdering spree? It’s not like they have nothing to live for – and their job is to save people. It seems quite out of character to go into that line of work and then not actually do it. He blinked a couple times, shaking his head. He didn’t have time to think about this – he had to get groceries and prepare himself for going back to 221B. He’d gone to stay with a friend the previous night, and told him he’d not be needing another. He wished he hadn’t said so.  
He eventually grabbed a loaf of bread after wandering for an hour, paid, and walked out, the sun seeming bright for this time of year, and yet it was cold. There was a breeze running through the street that seemed to cut right through you. He wanted to go home – he almost felt homeless; he didn’t want to go back. Holmes had crossed the line – he made rules to help him stay alive for goodness sake, and then he goes around ignoring him, getting himself hurt like it doesn’t matter, self-deprecating and acting like John’s out of his wit to try to help him.  
John didn’t understand Holmes’s philosophy of human attachment being a defect. He understood that he believed it with his whole being, along with Mycroft, but he didn’t understand why he was so attached to that rule – and why at this mess of not being able to take care of himself came with it.

He found himself outside of 221B after thinking far too much about his flat mate, and far too little on what he was to expect upon entry. He almost felt the need to knock after only a single day. He felt out of place – it was awkward to return home now. He walked in, hearing silence. It rung in his ears like the bell of a church; far too loud and distracting for what it was.  
He put the bread in the kitchen, then walked around to see if Holmes was here. There was no way he was asleep at this hour – he must’ve been working on the case. The unsolvable case; no motive, no common enemy – a doctor, with patients… acid, organ removal – organ theft – and no motive. It made no sense.  
John sat on his chair, seeing there was that day’s newspaper on his armrest. He picked it up, flipping it open to take a peek. Another murder – just yesterday – he wondered about the puncture wounds, if there were seven like Holmes had predicted. He sighed, closing the newspaper promptly, getting up and going to the fridge – the rules were still stuck to the exterior like he’d hoped. And the tea he’d started yesterday was left untouched as well. It was still on the counter – tea in the kettle, tea bags in the box next to the cup he’d taken out.  
John turned around then, looking around the kitchen – everything was untouched. Nothing had moved. It was as if Holmes was just a pigment of his imagination – like he didn’t even exist. Nothing had changed for a whole day. That was entirely unheard of in this flat.

“Sherlock?” John called, checking the bathroom – no one in there. Lights off, door open. “Sherlock?” He repeated, going to check his room, then finally Holmes’s door. He knocked gently, calling his name again. He heard a noise from inside. He called out his intentions before opening the door, seeing Holmes sprawled out on his bed like he’d just gone to sleep as soon as John left and stayed there for an entire day. He was an absolute wreck.  
His hair was a curly mess atop his head, completely unkempt. His eye was more swollen as he’d been sleeping on it, and even his other eye was puffy from sleeping so long. He sat up, revealing he’d gone to sleep in his day-clothes, not having bothered to change out of them. “Oh. You’re back.” Holmes said, standing up and walking out of the room promptly. “I figured you’d return. Did you get bread?”  
“I… I did.” John said, frowning as he followed his flat mate – this was not was he was expecting in the slightest. “What happened? You look like you’ve been asleep for a week.”  
“I slept much longer than usual – what time is it?” He asked, looking back at him like he suddenly realized it wasn’t even morning. John sighed, checking his watch.  
“Middle of the afternoon – it’s half past three.” He said, raising his eyebrows as Holmes grabbed bread and started eating it, walking into the living space.  
“Haven’t missed much. Eleven days for six murders – maybe tomorrow. Shouldn’t be one today. That wouldn’t be very organized for such an organized killer.”  
“Have you got a lead? A motive?” John asked, sitting in his chair, craving tea but not wanting to finish it with so many questions. “This case is buggered – it’s taken so long. Isn’t it bothering you.”  
“Most definitely.” Holmes said, staring out the window with his shirt half untucked from his dress pants, and his socks uneven on his feet. John watched him carefully, seeing his sleeves rolled up and the long, jagged scars up his arms. “I’ve been wondering why a doctor would go against his initial calling in such a way – doctors usually want to help people; nurse them back to health, save them, whatever. This one’s gone of the rails.”  
“Yeah, no kidding.” John scoffed, leaning forward to watch him. Holmes was almost unmoving – unusual for his thinking. Usually he paced, waved his arms about, talked loudly. His voice was almost soft now, one hand holding a slice of bread idly by his chest, and the other in the pocket of his pants. “Sherlock, you alright?” John asked, standing up. “You seem… not yourself.”  
“No, it’s nothing, this case is just…” He said, now making small gestures with his bread-clad hand. “Where did you go?” He asked, turning around. “No one knew – Mrs. Hudson asked, Molly hadn’t heard from you – Lestrade gave me an update. You were gone all night – and then you come back with bread.” He said, staring down at it. “Quite good bread, actually.” He commented, taking another bite.  
“I went to stay with a friend for the night.” John responded, wondering if this was why he was being quiet. “I thought I should give you some space – seemed like you needed it.”  
“I was asking you a question when you left. You never answered me.” Holmes said, frowning. “I asked you several questions, actually, none of which you answered. Did you hear any of them?”  
“I heard my name, and something about the case.” John said, his hands still by his sides. “Alright, fine, I was the one who needed a break, I just… this case is overwhelming, you’re overwhelming. You don’t listen to me. You don’t…”  
“Don’t what?” Holmes asked, raising an eyebrow.  
“You don’t understand what it’s like to be in my shoes – you don’t. You do these things thinking I’ll be unaffected, but you’re wrong. You get hurt and I notice, and I don’t like it. And I know you don’t like it either – it can’t be nice having to sleep on a swollen face, and see out of that eye.”  
“It’s not bad actually.” Holmes said, turning away now, not liking to hear about feelings and sentiment. “Don’t worry about me – we haven’t time for such things.”  
“We haven’t – Sherlock, for all we know this murder could be after you. You’re really putting your neck out on this one, popping around and checking everything, and it makes no sense – what if they are after you?”  
“A doctor? After me?” Holmes cackled, walking back towards he window, his slice of bread placed half-eaten on the counter, probably not to be touched again. “Don’t be ridiculous – there has to be a motive.”  
John sighed, rubbing his temples. “This is what I was talking about – you don’t take yourself into consideration.” He sighed, shaking his head and going towards the bathroom. “I’m going to freshen up. Then you should too. We need to think more about this – go to the hospital and ask questions there, not just with Molly… check more than the patient archives.” John said as he left the room.

Holmes sat on the couch, wondering why that hadn’t occurred to him. Why was he so slow? If he suspected a doctor, why wouldn’t he have gone to where doctors work? Where all these victims had come from? Why hadn’t he done that when he first suspected it on the first victim – wisdom teeth removal, the man afraid to die, and yet there he was, keeling over. He suspected it right away, and everything since has done nothing but confirm it, and he hadn’t checked into it. Had he mentioned it to Lestrade? He couldn’t remember.  
John came out from the washroom and insisted Holmes go clean up a bit – he looked horrendous – and he did so. He came out a new man, refocused and ready to go with John at his side again. He could concentrate – he knew what he was doing. He was going to go check out doctors – not John, he’s a doctor, but not – go ask doctors some questions, and… not John. The doctors that work at the hospital.

They hailed a cab, Holmes waving his arm and one pulling over immediately – they seemed to live on a busy street for cabs. They got in and pulled away quickly, almost the whole ride being silent. They were nearing the hospital when John spoke up. “Game plan?” He asked, looking out the window.  
“Ask questions, look around for anything that looks like my acid being stored anywhere…”  
“I’ll look for acid.” John said, glancing at Holmes. “I’m better at cover-up stories than you. And you’re better at questions.”  
“Right.” Holmes nodded, wondering what was wrong with his cover-up stories, but pushing that thought aside for the moment.

They pulled up, got out, and headed inside. “Ready?” Holmes asked, making John raise an eyebrow.  
“Sure.” He said, frowning in confusion as they walked in.  
“Good.” Holmes said as he went a completely different direction as soon as they got inside. John took the cue and went the other way, going into closets and staff rooms when on one was looking, having his papers on him if he needed an excuse.

He looked around for ages, seeing nothing even close to the concoction Holmes had made – his was thick and almost fleshy – like pale skin, sickeningly white; not white enough to look clean. He went to each floor, checking broom closets and such, thinking such a substance would need to be hidden at least a little, but he found nothing. He waited outside for Holmes after he’d finished, checking his watch and wondering why he wasn’t out yet.  
He came out just as John was about to walk back in – after half an hour – and asked what had taken so long. Holmes brushed him off, saying it was nothing and they didn’t have any of the answers he was looking for. John watched him carefully, seeing his carefree stride hadn’t changed, so he followed quickly. They had a quiet ride back of Holmes thinking silently, unlike his usual self, and John wondering what had happened to Holmes while he was gone.  
Neither of them got the answers they were looking for for eleven days.


	8. Over The Oceans

Over the next three days there were two more murders – six and five puncture wounds, both hospital patients within the last two months. Holmes had hardly stopped pacing, and when he did he played violin. John rubbed his temples on his chair, not knowing what was going on anymore – there was a murderer at large they couldn’t find, biological evidence was yet to be found, and a motive was nowhere to be seen.  
Holmes’s mind worked at half its usual speed, as well, because half of it was occupied by John’s strange behavior. There he was, on his laptop, eyes closed and fingers to his temples. He found it frustrating he couldn’t concentrate on the case – he wanted to badly. He just wasn’t sure how. How do you expel the thoughts of someone?  
He popped out, saying he was going to go check the bodies again and John could keep working on whatever he was working on.  
He was going to see Molly.

“Molly Hooper,” He said upon entrance, a dazzling smile on his face. Molly was shocked, her smile flickering on and off her face. “I have a question for you, since I’m sure you’ll be able to answer it with your experience.”  
“M-my experience?” She asked, frowning, not knowing what he was referring to. She assumed nothing to do with working in the morgue.  
“Yes, with people.” He said, then frowned, realizing she dealt with dead people in her work. “Alive people.” He added, nodding to himself.  
“Oh, okay… what can I help you with?” She asked, putting down some tools she’d been sterilizing.  
“John’s been acting strange, and it’s bothering me, but I need to concentrate on the case. How do I forget about him?”

Molly froze, staring at him with wide eyes. “You… you want to forget about John?” She asked, a nervous laugh escaping her lips. “Why would you… doesn’t he help with the cases?”  
“Of course he has minor input and alternate opinions, but it’s him, not his ideas. He’s bothering me – taking up brain space. I’ll lose if I keep thinking about him.”  
“How much do you think about him?” She asked, frowning, not understanding how it could possibly interfere with his case – he was always so concentrated on them.  
“Constantly. It’s a real bother.” He said.  
“You’re worrying?” Molly asked, her eyebrows raising exponentially. “You’re worrying about John? What’s wrong with him?”  
“Nothing’s – I’m not worrying, there’s nothing, I just can’t stop – I need to concentrate on the case!” He stuttered, cutting himself off with aggravation. “I just… need to concentrate. Not even nicotine patches are helping.”  
“Right…” Molly said, nodding. “Well, in my experience, when I can’t stop thinking about someone I have to figure out why I’m thinking about them… and then usually it subsides once it’s resolved.” She said, watching him carefully as his eyes darted about.  
“I don’t… understand. He’s acting strange, that’s why, I know that, why can’t I stop?”  
“Okay, you don’t know why he’s acting strange. Find out why.” She said calmly as she saw him escalate – not knowing was clearly his kryptonite.  
“Right. Find out why. Then I can concentrate on the case.” He said, nodding and walking out. “Thank you, Molly! You’re the best.” He flashed another smile, then walked away from the door.  
Molly sighed heavily, nodding to herself as she started sterilizing tools again, trying to dismiss her suspicions.

Holmes talked to himself the whole cab ride back to 221B, wondering why he didn’t ask about the bodies again while he was there and how knowing what was wrong would help. I guess the prospect of knowing in itself would soothe his raging thoughts.  
He walked into the flat and saw John had hardly moved – he was typing away and rubbing his temples, typing and rubbing.  
“John,” Holmes started, putting his hands in his pockets, which he never did, as when he was thinking he liked to wave them around and emphasize his words. “I have a dilemma.” He said, his eyes snagging on John’s knee, then darting anywhere but at his figure sitting in the chair.  
“Oh?” John asked sarcastically, not understanding the use of the word “dilemma” as Holmes chose his words very carefully, and that one seemed a bit… romantic. Was that the right word? It seemed like a word only really used in the movies – a cliché.  
“You’ve been acting strange, and you’re making it difficult for me to concentrate.” Holmes blurted, standing in his same position, hands in pockets and eyes locked on the place his skull used to be.  
“How so?” John asked, closing his laptop and setting it aside, sounding defensive. Holmes locked eyes with him then, frowning.  
“Well, you seem agitated by my violin once more, you disappeared for a day, and suddenly you don’t care when I leave – but you pretend to uphold your silly rules still-”  
“Do you miss my rules, Sherlock?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.  
“No, that’s not what I said at all, John. Are you listening?” Holmes asked, finally taking his hands out of his pockets and pacing. “I’m quite out of my element – I’m not good with… people.” He said, one hand running over his mouth.  
“Right… so you’re… worried about me?” John asked, standing up to go to the kitchen. Sitting idly by would be aggravating to Holmes, he knew that much.  
“I wouldn’t call it worrying, but that’s what people have been saying.”  
“People?” John asked, looking at him incredulously as he got out a cup and teabags, putting the kettle on. “Who did you ask? Were you talking about me?”  
“No, hardly.” Holmes said, throwing his head back. “Just… is something bothering you, John? Because if you’re not in perfect working order it’s going to be hard for us to work together.”  
“Are you serious?” John asked, a smile on his face, but it wasn’t one of happiness. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “I’m working just fine, thank you.” He said, pouring just-boiled water into his cup. He left Holmes’s empty.  
“You’re interfering with my concentration on the case – tell me if something’s bothering you.” He said, sounding hardly compassionate or empathetic.  
“Nothing’s wrong.” John said, pushing his teabag around with his eyebrows raised. “I’m perfectly okay, so if you wouldn’t mind letting off it’d be much appreciated.”  
“John, that song makes you toss and turn in the night, you left for a day with no explanation upon leaving or return, and you’re not talking to me anymore.”  
“You’ve been playing the song?” John asked, frowning at him now. “And listening to me? You wouldn’t be able to hear that from downstairs – did you come into my room?”  
“No, I wouldn’t think of it.” Holmes said, waving him off. “I stood outside your room in the hallway.”  
“Why?”  
“Experiment – much less detrimental to my health than the last one, don’t you think?” He asked sarcastically.  
“You’re being a right tit right now, Sherlock.” John said, his tea over steeping now as he had accidentally got teabags for a whole pot rather than singular cups. “Nothing. Is. Wrong.”  
“Something has to be wrong – you’re wrong.” He said, acting as if John was the case and not the constant murdering.  
“Sherlock.” John said, listening to the babbling but not comprehending what it meant. When it continued for longer than ten seconds and Holmes hadn’t stopped to listen John lost his temper. “Sherlock!” He yelled, his fists balled at his sides.  
“What?” Holmes asked as if John wasn’t angry.  
“Look, I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine, honestly this case is stressing me out because if we don’t find a motive soon I’m left to believe the guy’s after you – like a repeat of Moriarty, but less… out-there, I guess. And as much as you’re pissing me off right now, I don’t want you dead.” John ranted, his tea forgotten behind him, not to be remembered for many hours.  
“Oh, please.” Holmes dismissed, waving his hand and his face scrunching up in pure disapproval. “I’m hardly a target – and why wouldn’t they just come for me? Why kill all these other people first?”  
“I don’t know!” John yelled, taking a deep breath and then sniffing harshly, not knowing what else to say as Holmes stood there in dumbfounded silence. “I don’t know.” He repeated, sighing and going to sit on his chair again, his hand on his forehead. “What do we do… to find a doctor that…”  
Holmes didn’t understand why Molly said this would help – now he was just confused as to why John was so angry at him, and yet he was angry because he cared. That made no sense – he made no sense.

“There’ve been panicked comments on my blog.” John sighed, looking over to Holmes after several hours. “People are scared it’s going to be them next – that Sherlock Holmes will never find the murderer and humanity will be doomed.”  
“That’s a bit extreme.” Holmes said, contorting his face in partial disgust.  
“Hardly, compared to you.” John said, raising an eyebrow. Holmes scoffed, standing up. “Got anything? It’s been hours – usually you come up with something.”  
“My mind is working at half-capacity, even in my mind palace.” Holmes said, not feeling like explaining why, even when John asked.  
“Right so…” John said after he got no response, “we’ve exhausted all our leads – the doctor, the acid, the patients who keep dying – maybe predicting who will come next?”  
“That’s a lot of people and a lot of numbers.” Holmes said, his eyes closed and his fingers steepled underneath his nose. “The last two months is a long time – and a lot of patients go in. For what – minor to major, it doesn’t matter, we’ve had it all so far.”  
“Right… okay, so that’s not an option…” John nodded, tilting his head. “What about Mycroft, have you asked him? If he has any ideas, I mean.” John crossed his ankle over his knee, placing his arms comfortably on the armrests of his chair.  
“No, of course not, I don’t need his help. He needs me, but I don’t need him.” He said, sounding prouder than ever.  
“But he has a lot of contacts – people that might know-”  
“Not an option – I want to solve this case on my own. It’s a big one, and it’d prove to him I don’t need his help.”  
“But people are dying, Sherlock.” John said, making Holmes pause.  
“I doubt Mycroft would be able to prevent any of the deaths in time. I’ll leave it to him if I run out of time – I still have eight days.”  
“Eight days for four people that you’re letting down.” John said, trying to get some reaction out of him.  
“Oh, please.” Holmes said, turning around with an exaggerated expression of inconsideration. “He’s too smart – no matter how hard I try I need more information than we have now – he’s been leaving the smallest clues with each body, smaller and smaller each time.”  
“Wait, what? I thought it was just puncture wounds?” John asked, frowning.  
“Yes, yes of course there’s puncture wounds John, but each time there’s less trace of acid, and each time it’s harder to tell what the acid is doing – or targeting. The last two we found the frontal lobe to be slightly damaged – which is an organ that was stolen.”  
“Right, how are those hints though?” John questioned, his eyebrows lowered in confusion as he tried to follow what Sherlock was saying.  
“He’s showing that he can do whatever he puts his mind to – he stole organs, and now he can affect them with acid he injects into the body days after injection. In the latest cases, weeks.”  
“Wait,” John frowned, “then… are some of these victims with the lower number of puncture wounds… were they technically murdered before the more recent ones?”  
“Precisely… I’m thinking that the older victims are the ones dying now – but then why would he have an underdeveloped acid at the beginning? One so fast acting?”  
“And how did he line up the puncture wounds – he must’ve known.” John said, frowning deeply. “He… why would he do that?”  
“To show us what he can do.” Holmes said, clapping loudly. “He’s been showing off – he’s been showing off!”  
“Did you just realize this now? You made it sound like you’d known for a while.” John said, his frown deepening – if that was possible.  
“It just clicked – I had all the pieces; what else has he left behind?” Holmes wondered, thinking harder. He bustled about, his lips moving with no sound as he paced like he had before – he was back to normal, it seemed.

Several hours later, when John had just realized he forgot about his tea and went to have a red-stained cup with black liquid in it. He stared at the faded red stain, hardly resembling that of blood, but it still came to his mind. He shuddered, putting the cup down.  
“Hey, Sherlock?” He called, snapping Holmes out of it – he turned around on his heel, his eyebrows raised in curiosity at the sudden sound of his name. He looked innocent in that moment – John forgot about anything he’d done against him. “How are your wrists healing?” He asked, since he hadn’t asked in quite a while.  
Holmes looked down at his arms, which were covered by his sleeves, then back up at John. “Fine, I suppose. Why? Seems sudden of you to ask.”  
“I was just wondering.” John shrugged, sitting in his chair with a new cup of tea – he’d cleaned up his old one while this one steeped. “S’pose I haven’t asked in a while – wanted to make sure they were doing alright.”  
Holmes stared at him, frowning slightly. “Right.” He said slowly, rolling up his sleeves. “Inspect away, Doctor Watson.” Holmes said, sticking his arms out toward John.

White, jagged flesh made its way up both arms – from just below the palm to the crook of his elbow on both sides. It was hardly precise, but it wasn’t shaky either. It was the stitching job that made it look horrid – Holmes’s cuts were straight as an arrow, as you’d expect. John stared at it, then ran his thumb along each one, watching for flinching – to see if it was still tender. It was hardly red anymore – just a slight lingering of it.  
“Does it hurt?” John asked, glancing up at him – they locked eyes, Holmes’s soft and clueless for once. John frowned, then his face relaxed into shock. “Does it? I can’t tell from your face.”  
“It does.” Holmes said, seeming almost thoughtful.

He was thoughtful. He was wondering why it hurt. It shouldn’t after all this time – it’d healed over, why would it hurt still? Like poking a bruise, as John thumbed over it, trying to find out why it hurt as well, then telling him to try icing it for ten minutes. Holmes sat on the couch with frozen peas on his left arm, to be transferred to his right after ten minutes.  
He wondered about the redness around the scars that he didn’t think should be there – and the redness around the puncture wounds on the stomach of those first view victims. He wondered if somehow he got some of his own acid in his wounds – even though they were healed when he did it. Maybe some got on his skin and was absorbed into the bloodstream. Maybe he had another cut somewhere but for some reason it was concentrating here. It made no sense. He considered John’s theory of him being the sole target again – he brushed it off, figuring that that was extremely unreasonable and could never happen.  
He ignored his forearms for a while, thinking about the case, but it was a new problem he wanted to solve – the wounds were healed. Why were they like this?  
He wouldn’t know for eight days.


	9. And Over The Seas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Reference to previous self harm injuries - not graphic.

Watson would point to the paper on the fridge whenever Holmes asked a question regarding a case and going to investigate without him. Watson would make him wait until he’d finished his breakfast before leaving just to show he had to listen. He’d check his bandages every twelve hours, making sure they weren’t stained with blood from too much vigorous movement.  
It happened a couple of times, and Watson was amazed that he never got an infection from how open the wounds stayed from something as small as playing the violin – the constant movement of tendons prevented proper healing. Especially since he played for hours on end, ignoring the burning sensation he got. It was lucky he didn’t play guitar with two hands with vigorous finger movement – or piano, for that matter. At least one hand was mostly unmoving.  
Watson would unwrap the old bandages and carefully apply new ones after sanitizing the wound and making sure the bandages were clean. Holmes would sit there impatiently, not doing as most people would – watch the bandages go around and complain at it if it got to tight. Watson had to pay extra attention to make sure he didn’t because Holmes would never tell him – he just wanted it to be done.

“Sherlock!” Watson called, standing sternly in the kitchen with his fists balled at his sides. “I told you no unauthorized experiments – what is this?”  
“Well, mother, let me explain.” Holmes sassed, exaggerating the motion of pushing hair out of his face. “I was just mixing up a spell to make your damn rules go away!” Holmes exploded, a frown set deep into his features.  
“You child,” Watson scoffed, shaking his head. “You can’t self-monitor, so I made rules to help you until you can.”

“I’m going out to talk with Lestrade – he thinks he’s got something. Probably unrelated but I’m going to go check it out.” Holmes called out, making Watson raise his eyebrows. At least he’s accepted he should at least sort of follow the rules.  
“Alright, if you end up doing anything else tell me so I don’t have to come looking for you.” John called out, making Holmes sigh.  
“Whatever you say, boss.”

John was left alone in the house. He decided that if Holmes was going off by himself there was nothing for him to hide, but John wanted to look anyway. He cleaned up a bit too, in the process. Put all the tea in one cupboard rather than two cupboards and a drawer, cleaned out the fridge of old cheese, spoiled eggs, and old sandwich meat. And a couple jars of unsightly substance he figured Holmes wouldn’t miss… he kept one of each for safety though.  
He opened the freezer to be greeted by two ice cube trays, and a foggy plastic container labeled “Bear Heart”. John promptly closed it again, staring at the outside of it in shock, then continuing to the counter – microscope he left, he stacked and set aside all the other things that went with it, grimacing at how much residue was on the countertop. He debated on whether or not to clean it up. He decided that it’d be easier on his conscience if it was clean.

All was done and he felt as if his personality had gone out the window – he’d never done that much cleaning in his life. He wasn’t an extremely organized person by heart – he usually left it unless he was bored out of his mind, or his soldier instincts were kicking in.  
He slumped into his chair, wondering to himself about this rogue doctor again – the same old thoughts. How could he go against his vows to be a doctor, and what did he have against all these regular old blokes?  
He sat there thinking in circles for a good two hours while he typed up a blog post about not worrying too much as it would do no good, and then Holmes was on the case. He checked the time and decided to call Holmes. He took out his phone, but just as he started dialing the door opened.  
“Sherlock?” He called out. The silence followed by footsteps confirmed his suspicions.

“Seven days, four victims, it’s the only thing that adds up – one tomorrow, one on Monday, one on Wednesday, and one on Friday the thirteenth.” He said, as if trying to drill this in – as if he kept forgetting. John knew this wasn’t true, but that’s what it was sounding like. It was obsessive.  
“Right, all patients of the hospital within the last two months.”  
“All having been to different doctors, as Lestrade looked into. Took him longer than I’d wanted.”  
“Right, so no pin-point there.” John sighed. “There’s no pin-points anywhere. Are we sure it’s even a doctor?”  
“It’d have to be someone with access to the rooms – a doctor or a nurse.” Holmes confirmed, tilting his head. “It’s the most probable – so I’m settling on it.”  
“But this guy’s tricky, what if-”  
“Nothing you will say will sway me, John, because I’m very unsure on this case so I’m making lots of assumptions – of course it might not be a doctor, but I’m going to assume it is so I don’t go absolutely insane.” Holmes rambled, making John freeze.  
“Right…” He said, nodding. “But don’t you think we should explore-”  
“Not right now, not with so little time.”  
“But isn’t it the best time? With so little time – we want to catch him, right?”  
“Him or her – assuming it’s a him, assuming he’s a doctor, and we won’t catch him until Friday. He’s too careful, but the thirteenth victim will give it away somehow. This one wants to be caught – but his way.”  
“I don’t… understand.”  
“He’s a genius, this one – he’s outsmarted the police, and so far, me, but he’ll slip up on the last one somehow. He’ll give himself away.”  
“That’s what your counting on? A cliché?” John asked, coughing up his confidence and throwing it in the trash.  
“Precisely. Everything this one does is cliché. This man, this doctor. Assumed to be, anyway.”  
“Sherlock, you alright?” Watson asked, glancing at his arms, since the last time he talked himself in circles like this was during his incident.  
“Peachy.” He said, seeming genuine – his eyes were soft, his lips were gently closed in a passive manner. He seemed blissful – or high. Or both.  
“Are you high?” John asked bluntly, earning himself a look from Holmes of offense.  
“How could you think that? I’m your best friend – I would never do such a thing! You should know this.” He said, sounding much more emotional than usual.  
“Sorry…” John said, frowning, wanting to know more. “What did you do while you were out?” He asked, picking up the newspaper to pretend to look it over. He wanted to seem relaxed – like Holmes could tell the difference in whether it was genuine relaxation anyway.  
“Went to see Lestrade, stopped in with Molly to confirm a few things, then came home.” He said, smiling slightly.  
“Ah…” John said, frowning. He let the silence simmer for ten minutes, then asked again. “Right, so what did you do while you were out?”  
“Stopped in to see Lestrade and then Molly… I just told you that. Is something wrong?” He said, frowning at John.  
John lowered his newspaper and sighed, tilting his head to the side to stretch it out. “I’m just tired – haven’t been sleeping much. Case has been keeping me up.”  
Holmes hummed, seemingly understanding. “Right. I’ve been the same way – not many days left, so many people to be murdered and there’s no way to tell who, or how to stop it. Can really put a damper on the mental state, can’t it?” Holmes said, making John freeze, his eyes trained on Holmes.  
“The mental state… I guess so, but… you love this – how would you know about that, if anything it improves your mental state.” John commented, folding his newspaper and putting it aside. Something was wrong with Holmes.  
“Well… this case has gotten a bit out of hand – I can’t solve it. And there’s a week left. One week. Seven days. One hundred and seventy four hours, to be precise.” He tilted his head, then sniffed harshly, seeming a bit fidgety.  
“Are you on something?” John asked, leaning in to get a closer look – he didn’t look like he had when he knew he was high – sunken eyes and all, but he did have the sporadic behaviour.  
“On the couch, if that’s what you mean.” He said, patting the cushion beside him. “Quite comfortable too – why do you always sit in that boring old chair? This couch is quite nice.”  
“Are you inviting me to sit with you?”  
“Not exactly.”

There was a silence for quite a while. Dusk approached fast, the sky turning a murky tomato-esk colour, and Holmes hadn’t snapped out of his strange behaviour. John didn’t know what to do – or if there was anything to be done.  
Holmes, at this point, was like a broken trinket John kept out of sentiment. Or something like that. That analogy was a bit possessive. But it worked all the same – because Holmes wasn’t like a child to John like he had once been, where he wanted to care for and nurture him, and he also pissed him off endlessly and never gave any thanks. It was different now. Holmes was different. He went off and didn’t self-destruct like he used to, he isn’t buzzing about this case like he had been with Moriarty – it made no sense. This case was a boatload of everything Holmes usually enjoyed – mystery, dead-ends – and a lot of them – all these strange murders that are connected loosely by puncture points and counting rhythmically and yet the murders were committed out of sequence.  
And here was Holmes, sitting on the couch, one ankle resting upon his other knee, his hands fidget-free in his lap as he looked out the window. You could see him almost vibrate with the need to move and talk loudly – his lips were pressed together in a thin line and his eyes spoke a dictionary in three different languages, but none of John’s knowledge. He was like a misunderstood relic – wrongly translated – and John was a rookie trying to figure things out on his own. Which obviously takes much longer than with guidance – but where was he to get that? Mycroft? No, he’d hardly help at all, probably just make jokes and say it was just “Sherlock being Sherlock”.  
John stared at him until the unsettling image was locked into his mind. His eyes wide and green, staring out the window and holding the world within them, oceans and lakes settling and swirling and yet stationary. His nose, twitching every once in a while as he tried to keep his mouth closed, and his mouth itself, the floodgates with more and more build-up behind them as he wanted to ramble on and on forever. His shoulders were square, but unevenly so. His hands were locked in his lap, his thumbs twitching to twiddle, but not succumbing. John’s eyes remembered every piece of him – how his shoe-clad feet were perfectly still, and yet there seemed to be invisible movement around them, and how his sitting position; his shoulders were uneven because his hips were rotated. John stared at his hips for a long time, wondering if he always sat like that and he’d never noticed, or if he was just in an odd position for the time being. He decided the latter, for he’d never noticed that before.  
“What are you staring at, John?” Holmes finally asked, raising an eyebrow at him. “Is there something there?” He asked, adjusting, both feet on the ground now rather than one crossed over his knee. His arms moved from being on his thighs to being on the couch on either side of him as he looked around for whatever John had been looking at.  
“It was nothing – just thinking.” John said quickly, looking out the window. He felt like he was in a room with a stranger. It felt wrong – he didn’t know the man sitting on the couch with his cheekbones and curly hair atop his head.  
Holmes hummed, his eyebrows lowered as he watched John’s every movement until he finally succumbed and left for bed. It was dark now anyway – dusk passed quickly. “Just waiting on another murder…” He said to himself as he could hear the creaks of John’s bed. “Six days, starting tomorrow.”


	10. Back Where My Heart

Tomorrow came briskly. “Six days!” Holmes chirped, his voice sounding much more pleasant than usual. John noticed the difference between his usual voice, being grim and low, sometimes even growly, and now – now his voice was flying slightly higher than usual and had fluctuations like never before.  
“Morning.” John said, getting into the kitchen past his wired friend, putting the kettle on. He was getting used to needing the caffeine injection before listening to Holmes’s rants.  
“It is, good observation John.” Holmes said, but without its usual saturation of sarcasm. It almost sounded genuine. John lowered his eyebrows, not saying anything until after the kettle had sung and the tea was strong.

“Another murder, only two left, this one’s following the pattern as well – shall we?” He asked, holding out John’s coat toward him. John stared at it, his cup of tea in hand.  
“I thought you’d have left and come back without me – you’d already have the details.” John said, frowning at his estranged flat mate.  
“I thought you might like to accompany me. Shall we?” He repeated, thrusting the jacket toward him again.  
“Right…” John sighed, decided to chug the tea and scorch his throat, preparing himself for a whole day of Holmes’s flip-floppiness.

They got into a cab and Holmes sat in silence, his hands on his thighs. John watched as neither one twitched, but it was as if, once again, the area around them buzzed with off-put energy.  
They pulled in, John getting out just after Holmes. Holmes walked toward the building, John on his heels – with much less effort than usual. Holmes was in a casual stroll, his feet laying smoothly across the concrete with each step. What happened to him?  
They got in to see Molly, who had the file on the new victim all typed up and ready for Holmes to peer over, but he quickly handed it to John to look at first. “Tell me what you see.” He said, watching John’s every move. Molly stood there in shocked silence, seeing what had become of Holmes.  
“I… see a murdered man, presumably with… three puncture wounds… maybe one of the older victims – who was actually injected with the stuff earlier, but has died now, in sequence again.” John shrugged, reading it over to see that there was deterioration in the bowels and, again, the frontal lobe. The liver seemed very saturated with toxins as well, as was to be expected.  
“Right.” Holmes said, seemingly wanting to sigh, but he did not. He took the file back once it was passed toward him – not before, like he usually would – and read it over, nodding and thanking Molly, saying he was going to go call Lestrade to ask him questions about the scene. He left the room, leaving John and Molly together in shocked silence.

“What happened to him?” Molly asked, leaning toward John, her voice hushed. “He seems… off. Too nice, too considerate – like he suddenly understands human feelings and has compassion or something. Was that too harsh?” Molly asked, seeming ashamed of what she’d just said.  
“Not at all. He’s too nice, and it irks me.” John said, crossing his arms. “He said he had talked to Greg and you yesterday, and that’s when he started getting all… fluffy.” He said, gesturing to where Holmes had just left the room. “He did, didn’t he?”  
“Well, I didn’t hear anything about Greg, but… he did come in to see me.”  
“What about?” John asked, glancing toward her, double taking as she was looking down at her twiddling thumbs nervously. “What about, Molly?” He repeated, facing her fully now.  
“Well… it’s just…” She said, biting her lip and looking at the door to make sure Holmes wasn’t coming back. “He… he came asking about you and how to make you feel better. He said you were off – irritable and such… he was worried.”  
“Sherlock? Worried? For me?” John asked sarcastically, letting out a laugh until he realized Molly was serious. “You’re serious?”  
“Yes, why would I lie about this?” She asked, seeming exasperated. “I told him to try to be patient with you, because, I don’t know, I… I thought it might help, as I know how he can be…” She said sheepishly.  
“No, no, it’s fine, he can be overbearing most of the time – is that all you said?” He asked, wondering if she’s said anything about waiting for him, being nice and considerate for once in his damn life.  
“Well… yes, mostly.” She said, her eyes flitting about. John stared at her, craning his neck forward. “I can’t say what else though, I promised I…” She said, them pursed her lips, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, John.”  
“Well, I know who I’m going to to keep my secrets.” John smiled, thanking her for her help before leaving to follow Holmes. He was waiting outside by the cab, having not left without him this time.  
What was wrong with Holmes?

“Molly, nothing is working, John is just as irrational as ever.” Holmes said, pacing back and forth in front of Molly. This time instead of putting down her work she continued, figuring he would be here for a while just ranting. She nodded, listening to everything he had to say. “He’s – he doesn’t understand, he thought I was being ridiculous to care about him at all – he thought I was joking.” He said, seeming more upset over it than anyone would expect he could be.  
“Sherlock…” Molly said, pausing. Her suspicions were driving her insane, she had to clear them up… cautiously. “How do you feel around John?” She asked, making eye contact for a moment.  
“I feel… wrong.” Holmes said, tilting his head as he weighed the word in front of him. “I feel like how I would expect it would feel to be a normal person – unable to think, or even breathe. This is a recent development that’s been troubling me.” He said, pacing still, his hands moving sporadically in front of him.  
Molly stared at him, shock set into her expression. Holmes questioned it, and she quickly dismissed it saying she was just thinking. She wasn’t just thinking. Her suspicions had been confirmed.  
“Try being a little more patient with him.” She said, making him raise his eyebrows.  
“How so?”  
“Try… being nice.” She smiled, nodding, feeling her insides turn with guilt and turmoil. “Listen to what he has to say, pay attention to him, don’t leave without him…” Molly suggested, tilting her head to the side as she looked back down at her current task. She was writing notes down about something or rather, but she couldn’t concentrate. She put down the pen and stared up at him. “Sherlock, don’t lie to me.” She blurted. “How do you feel around John.”  
Holmes paused, wondering how he could answer any differently than he already had. “What do you mean? I already answered that question.”  
“How do you feel, Sherlock? What emotions.” She asked, making his face slacken. His whole body froze – not tensing, it just stopped. “Sherlock?” She said, leaning toward him and waving her hands in front of him. “Sherlock?” She said again, walking around the counter to stand in front of him. She felt her stomach turn as his eyes locked on hers in his frozen state, his lips slightly parted and his eyebrows drawn together. “What do you feel?”

They arrived back at 221B and John immediately started asking questions. “What is up with you?” He asked, crossing his arms, even though Molly had given him big hints as to why he was so… normal… but he wanted to know what Holmes had to say about it.  
“What do you mean?” Holmes asked, turning back around to look at him. “I don’t feel up with accompaniment from anything.”  
John rolled his eyes, almost missing the sarcasm that usually oozed from his statements. “Look, you’re acting strange, Sherlock. You’re hardly chattering, your hands are still all the time now, you’re being nice to me – tell me what’s wrong.” John said, uncrossing his arms to have his hands on either side of his hips, clenching and unclenching as he didn’t know what to do with himself.  
Holmes stood there, stationary again, but this time his eyes moved, flitting about. They didn’t lock on anything, just moved sporadically left and right, up and down, the rest of him frozen in time. “Right.” He said, turning back around to go in his original-planned direction.  
“Sherlock!” John said, following him. “Molly said you went to talk to her.”  
“Yes, I told you that myself.” Holmes said, glancing over his shoulder to look at John. “Nothing to hide, right? It’s in the rules, right there.”  
“Look… I want to know why you can’t focus, too, and I want to help you focus because damn it Sherlock, people are dying.” John said, gesturing toward the window, assumedly to resemble the world outside theirs.  
“Correct.” Holmes said, his eyes trained on the floor. “People are dying, and there’s only two move to save, and I can’t do it, John.” He said, slamming his fist on the countertop. “I can’t, because this one is too good. If he was targeting me we’d know – I’d be dead.”  
Holmes left the room, leaving John to stare after him, wondering if he was just having some kind of breakdown over not being able to solve this one. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Life in this flat was becoming unbearable.

“Two, two, two left, eleven done, all out of sequence and in perfect order – contradictory, a doctor that murders, contradictory; contradiction. Main target – anyone, it’s a serial killer, there’s no pattern to be seen except that they all come from the hospital…” Holmes mumbled to himself as he walked around the flat, getting quieter as he was closer in proximity to John until he was silent around him, and then his volume rose again once he was getting further.  
John was ready to lose his mind. “I’m glad you’re being considerate now,” He started, his tone already agitated, making Holmes turn on his heel to face him; “but this is ridiculous. I want to know about the case, I want to help if I can, and you’re not telling me anything – and you’re asking about how I’m feeling.” He said, waving his arms about like Holmes usually did. “I just want my old flat mate back.”  
Holmes stared at him, his curly locks recently cleaned and sleeping on his forehead. He held eye contact much longer than he usually would, then let his eyes drift about as usual, across John, then around the room. “Right, well, I just thought you might need space from all this – considering you left for a day.”  
“Because you were being a cock.” John said, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. “I needed space. And you’re making me want it again.”  
“Oh, sorry I’m being too nice.”  
“It’s not about that,” John sighed, rubbing his forehead, putting shade over his eyes. He took a deep breath, composing himself. “You’re acting as a normal flat mate would, I get that. But I enjoy sharing a flat with Sherlock Holmes, not some random bloke off the street.”  
Holmes frowned, tilting his head. “Is that my name?”

Twenty-four hours passed as John effectively ignored the existence of his flat mate. He was getting tired of his façade that he was just some regular old, touchy-feely guy off the street who needed to share the cost of rent because he’d been some drug addict before or something and was three weeks clean – hardly impressive, but to them a world of difference was being made.  
John started wondering if he’d developed another drug problem, but quickly decided it wasn’t that – there was no solid evidence, nor consistency of behaviour that correlated with any one drug. He was happy, sure, but still stressed about the case to a point. He was kinder, more easy going, but didn’t snap at any point or change his behaviour for anything – not yet, anyway.  
“Five days, two left.” Holmes’d started repeating to himself, pacing back and forth, going silent when John entered the room. “John,” He’d address, nodding toward him. John would nod in return, his eyes staying on Holmes’s until he had to look away from an over-abundance of discomfort.  
“Five days, huh?” John asked, going into the kitchen. “Got anything new yet? I’m assuming no murder until tomorrow.”  
“Assumedly so – everything is being assumed with this one.” Holmes mumbled, seeming almost uncomfortable with this conversation. Not before John asked though – when he was mumbling he was doing so quite happily. John stared at him, the creases in his face hardening. “What is it now?” Holmes asked, rolling his eyes stiffly. “Something on my face?”  
The sarcasm was returning, but only as self-preservation it seemed. Holmes crossed his legs, staring at the ground as his shoulders tensed. John sighed, pulling his jacket on, tired of this. “I’m going out for a bit, okay?” John asked. Holmes immediately relaxed.  
“Right, see you soon.” He nodded.  
“I’ll be back in about an hour.”  
“Okay.”  
“So… don’t do anything…”  
“You wouldn’t approve of, I know. See you in an hour.”

John went for a walk to clear his head. This time he didn’t go to talk to anyone, he just went. He walked here and there, expecting a phone box to ring at any moment and Mycroft to ask what was going on. Surely he’d know that he was… off.  
He stopped in for fish and chips, had at least four cups of coffee before leaving, left a tip on the table and knocked upon his friend’s door with an awkward smile upon his face. “Four nights?”


	11. Is Longing To Be

John stayed with his friend for two nights, heard about the next murder, and immediately said he’d have to cut it short and went to see Holmes at the morgue with Lestrade and Molly. Molly had everything typed out, but not having sent it through yet as Holmes wanted to look at the body.  
He was walking around it with a pocket-magnifier and looking at various parts of the body as it was found. John stared at it in horror, seeing the puncture wounds – much more obvious now. They weren’t made by a syringe this time. The puncture wounds were made with some kind of harpoon, having gone through the body and punctured a wooden surface – small wooden flakes were left on the body. Two puncture wounds – one through the heard, and one through the bowels. Hard to say which came first, but Holmes thought the heart so that’s what they assumed for the time being – though it was trivial, really.  
John sighed as he watched, feeling guilt over this person having been killed. Could’ve had a family, children… Didn’t seem old, either. Nowhere near middle-aged. Prime-time, John thought. Holmes bustled about, sighing as he tilted his head, his neck stretching.  
“What is it?” Lestrade asked, making Holmes look at him with an absolutely dumbfounded face.  
“It’s quite intriguing – there’s nothing, yet again.” He said, shrugging. “Harpoon wounds, nothing else. Obvoiusly that’s what you’ve found that killed him.” He said.  
“Well, naturally.” Lestrade said, crossing his arms.  
“Well, you’re wrong. Again, some kind of other deterioration – I guarantee it.” He said. “Frontal lobe, most likely – seems to be a popular location.” He said, taking his rubber gloves off and throwing them out. “Molly? Send me all the records so far. John? Come with me.”

Holmes seemed almost back to normal after two days away – although, he also seemed quite moody and sporadic. “So, you really found nothing new on the body?” John asked in the cab on the way back.  
“Quite the contrary.” Holmes said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’ve found everything I need. You’re coming back to Baker Street, right? You’ve got to stop disappearing on me, I really do appreciate your company.”  
“Right.” John sighed, opening the door of the cab as they pulled up. They walked in, John plopping back into his original chair, sensing that they were out of groceries as his stomach rumbled. He was too agitated, however, to make any effort towards even thinking about take-away.

“So, what’d you find then?” John asked, his eyes closed as he sighed heavily, listening to Holmes bustle about in the kitchen, pacing and mumbling to himself. “Sherlock?” He inquired, looking behind him. Holmes was busy, walking around the table, changing directions whenever he had a contradictory thought.  
“Mrs. Hudson!” He yelled suddenly, just as John was about to stand. She came down in a hurry, wondering if there was a break-in or something. “I need the floor-plans for the flat.” Mrs. Hudson nodded, making John question once again how Mrs. Hudson was such a contradictory person – she was so sweet, and yet had so many things you would never expect.  
A nice car, drugs… you name it.

Holmes stared at the plans for hardly a minute before telling John to make sure he bolted his windows that night.  
“I always have my windows bolted.” John sighed, putting his hands on the table as he watched his flat mate enjoy the stress-level that was bubbling around him. “It comes with being a soldier.”  
“With having been a soldier.”  
“A veteran, then.”  
They both hummed in agreement, shaking their heads. John wondered what he could do to help, then answered his own question as he opened his mouth to ask and Holmes shushed him. He sat down in his chair, rubbing his temples as he waited for Holmes to finish what he was doing.

The doorbell rang, and Holmes immediately ran down, shocking John out of his sleepy-haze. “What are you doing?” He called, hearing light chatter at the door. The door closed, causing John to look down the stairwell and see Holmes coming back up with bags in both hands.  
He came into the kitchen and threw them down, having John open them up to see take-away containers “You got us… dinner.” He said, glancing at Holmes in appreciation.  
“I got you dinner. I don’t eat while on the case. Slows me down.”  
“Wait… have you not eaten this entire time?” He asked, frowning at his flat mate. “It’s been…”  
“I’ve had the tea you’ve made, which I appreciate, and Mrs. Hudson has been throwing food at me whenever you leave.” He said, glancing up from under his eyelashes.  
“No wonder you’ve been acting so strange…” John said, shaking his head. “Thanks, again.” He said as he opened it up and smelled the food, sighing in amazement at how good plain chow-mein noodles suddenly smelled.  
“You’re welcome.” Holmes replied after a few seconds, making John pause, nod, and continue to dig through the food and shove as much into his mouth as he could swallow.

After he’d eaten Holmes smiled at him, nodding. “Well, now that you’ve eaten I’d like your opinion on something.” He said, standing up straighter.  
“Right, okay.” John said, throwing out the trash and putting the leftovers in the barren fridge. “Fire away.” He said since Holmes hadn’t responded yet.  
“Right, so… let’s say we somehow found out that the next victim is… you, let’s say.” Holmes said, steepling his fingers under his chin. John felt an unparalleled satisfaction to see that again. He didn’t even mind that Holmes was plotting his murder.  
“Right okay.” John nodded, leaning back on the counter, his arms crossed over his chest.  
“How would you go about your last day?” Holmes asked, frowning. He looked much more puzzled than usual – his brow was furrowed, his nose was scrunched slightly, he was tonguing his cheek absent-mindedly. He seemed rather poised about something.  
“I… does this have anything to do with the case?” John asked, not seeing how this information could benefit Holmes in his investigation in any way.  
“It does, trust me, just answer the question.” He said, nodding. “We have two days until the last murder, I’m just trying to get all the information I can get.”  
“Right…” John nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right, okay. I’d probably go get drunk, if I knew it was coming.” John shrugged. “Uhh… I’d do as much as I could – visit some place near-by I’d never been to before, maybe get a date.” John sighed. “I dunno. Hard to say, when you only have one day.”  
“That was rather poetic.” Holmes said, making John laugh lightly. “So, you’d waste your time.”  
“By your standards, I guess so.” John nodded, feeling amused and happy that Holmes was back to his usual self – he wasn’t sure what had happened over those two days, but it must’ve been influential.

Molly sat on the couch, refusing to take John’s chair even when told to. “I don’t want to be filling in for him again. Last time… Nevermind.” She smiled nervously, her eyes locked on the floor. Holmes sighed heavily, sitting with his knees over the armrest of his chair to face her more properly.  
“Fine, fine.” He sighed, crossing his arms and huffing like a child. “Then answer me this – why has John left again?”  
“You aggravated him by not being yourself – he really doesn’t mind who you are… just sometimes you’re too outspoken, and at the wrong times… people are sensitive, Sherlock.” She said, her hands folded in her lap.  
“Quite right.” Holmes said, interpreting what she’d said slightly wrong – that people were sensitive at the wrong times, not that they were sensitive, and sometimes things affected them more than at others.  
“So… be yourself. Keep investigating, next murder, just… invite him. Talk to him, include him, be yourself.” Molly smiled, and Holmes smiled back.  
“Thank you, Molly.” He said, making her look down bashfully. “I really do appreciate everything you do for me.”  
She smiled, standing up. “I’ll see you soon, then.” She slung her bag over her shoulder, promptly walking out the door.  
“See you…” Holmes said after she’d gone.

“Well, John, I need to test alcohol levels.” Holmes said later that night, getting up from the couch suddenly. “Care to join me?”  
“Alcohol levels?” John asked, his eyebrows lowered.  
“I’m going to the pub.” Holmes clarified, making John get up and put his jacket on without another word.

They got in a cab, drove all the way there with questions from John as to why, and answers from Holmes making nothing become any clearer. They pulled up, Holmes paying the cabbie as John took in the glory of what they were doing. They’d never done this – and John was starting to think it might not have as much to do with the case as Holmes wanted it to.  
They went in and sat in a quieter corner, throwing back pint after pint. Holmes just followed John’s lead, but seemed to have a slightly lower alcohol tolerance due to not going out drinking with friends like John had done before. His vision started to blur and his through process slowed, making him kind of frustrated, but also much more care-free.  
John laughed as he started doing impressions of Mrs. Hudson from when he’d first met her, and “Guido” with his unsolvable cases. John laughed, finding it funnier than it actually was.  
They left quite some time later, neither one knowing exactly how much, and got a cab back. John questioned the point of that again, getting no proper response from Holmes. They stumbled back into their flat, Holmes relying on John to stay upright. He helped him sit and chuckled as his eyes drooped closed and he mumbled something about alcohol tolerance and how he didn’t understand why it was a thing. John chuckled, sitting on the couch beside where Holmes had collapsed and looked down at him.  
Holmes stared back up, his eyes wide, and although the vision he had was blurry, they looked clear as day. They were unwavering as they stared at John, and they contrasted quite nicely with the warm redness that had spread across Holmes’s cheeks and nose. John couldn’t look away. It was as if he was seeing Sherlock for the first time again – back in the lab, his friend introducing him. Being psycho-analyzed, all of it correct except for his sister, and then catching their first murderer.

John hauled Sherlock off to bed, considering it was dark out anyway, throwing the blanket on top of him lazily as Sherlock curled up and huffed about something being inconsiderate and unfair. John stared at the curls poking out from the cave Sherlock’d made in a matter of seconds. He wondered then if they were soft – he’d never felt them before. Only looked.  
He left the room, closing the door behind him and going to bed himself. He crawled under the covers, feeling his mind running in circles as he tried to deny everything he was telling himself. But you can’t call yourself a liar – that’s contradictory. So instead he laid there, telling himself it was just the alcohol – it wasn’t anything.  
He neglected to remember that alcohol can only amplify what’s already there, not create something new.


	12. Please Let The Moon That Shines On Me

Pondering seemed like the wrong word. But so did obsessing. It was some kind of middle ground; not studying, because it was within himself.  
Not self-analysis, because it didn’t only involve him.  
Not pondering because it was more fertile than that.  
Not obsessing because he participated in many other tasks with it put in the background.

John was in the kitchen with the kettle on for the first time in four days. He listened to it boil eagerly, letting it reach its peak before pouring it into the respective cups, over the teabags, and watching the water bleed.  
Sherlock was in the living area, his feet outstretched in front of him in a disgruntled manner. They’d gone out drinking, Sherlock having felt quite sick the next morning and taken aspirin – something John hadn’t seen before – and then spent the day past wandering London. They looked at weird sculptures that they’d seen but not looked closely at, sat in a park for a while and talked about the case among other things, and even gone to get groceries together – which meant they both got what they wanted. Far more productive than Sherlock thought it would be.  
Today they were waking up later than usual, having no reason to really hurry. Sherlock had incentive to that most people would take and run with, getting up at five and hurrying about to get as many things done as possible, but instead of invigorating him it shut him down. He sat on the couch, helpless, staring at the wall. John didn’t have much to say either, because he thought they were just waiting for another murder – hence all the random activities Sherlock was running around doing. Boredom, he figured. Although, then again, this wasn’t usually how he dealt with boredom. Unfortunately, John didn’t dig into it much.

The tea was steeped and set aside, hardly appreciated for what it was. John sipped it once too hot, and let it get cold. Sherlock stared at it as steam curled over the lip – fast at first, then slowly until it stopped.  
“Want to… look at another case while we wait?” John asked, finding it unusual how mopey Sherlock seemed.  
“Hardly worth it – the murder will be today. The giveaway. The face reveal. Friday the thirteenth, the thirteenth murder…” He said, rubbing his hands together beneath his chin. “Hardly worth straying from.”  
“Right, yes, that… makes sense.” John nodded, sipping at his lukewarm tea with dissatisfaction. “Well… what, no sight-seeing today?” John teased, still having no clue as to what made him suddenly want to tour London – he’d already memorized every inch of it, no doubt.  
“No… not in the mood.” He said, drawing out ‘mood’, his voice sounding gloomier than usual.  
“Not in the mood?” John asked, almost laughing at the idea. “What kind of moods do you have? You hardly seem any different – kind of mopey, maybe, but… well, we have groceries, will you eat?” John asked, raising his eyebrows as he stood.  
Sherlock looked at him, his eyes sliding sluggishly across the room to land on him. Their eyes locked, Sherlock’s looking dull and inhuman for a moment before he nodded his head and the corners of his mouth pulled up just enough to notice. “Sure. Thanks, John.”

John went to the kitchen to try his hand at cooking – he’d not done any proper cooking in a while, so may as well start with eggs. He threw some in a pan, realizing immediately he forgot to grease it first. He groaned, throwing butter on top, hoping it’d help.  
As he watched the butter bubble and spread around the pan, and the egg turn from snot to food he wondered why Sherlock suddenly seemed okay with eating. Just a couple days previous he’d turned it down, saying he’d never eat on a case because it slowed him down. And here he was, reaching the peak of the case, willing to eat. Unfortunately, John didn’t dig into it much.  
He scraped the egg from the pan, figuring scrambled was good enough, and plated it once they seemed… sturdy.

Sherlock looked at it long and hard, then ate it quickly and gave his thanks to John. He smiled, having forgotten what it felt like to be thanked for something like that. Something as simple as badly-cooked eggs. An undeserved “thank you” over something so unimportant.  
They sat in silence for quite some time, but then the clock struck noon. Sherlock could practically sense it, turned on the TV, said something about needing to pop out, and left. John had asked if he should tag along, but Sherlock said he wouldn’t be long. Unfortunately, John didn’t dig into it.

He was long. He was very long – he was out for hours. In the fall the sun starts setting earlier, so John nor Sherlock could judge the time that way, and it didn’t help that a massive rainstorm had moved in and knocked out the power. John was left in the dark with his watch to tell the time, but he wasn’t exactly sure what time he’d gone – he hadn’t realized it was exactly noon when he’d left.  
He tried calling Sherlock, but got no answer. He figured he must be too busy to pick up – onto something… maybe the murder had happened – he was already there, at the scene.  
Unfortunately, John was more right than he’d ever been in before that moment.

This case had proved to be difficult. One murder at a time, technically committed at very different times, coming into order – with the number of puncture wounds being used for reference – as 11, 7, 8, 4, 9, 10, 1, 2, 3, 12. It really made no sense, and their biggest lead was that they all had been to the hospital within the last two months.  
Well, here’s where the trickery comes in. Of course, they had been to the hospital, that was not wrong, but that was not what connected. And the murderer himself was not a doctor at all – which had been assumed by Sherlock because it seemed the most probable – balance of probability, as Mycroft always said – but this time that wasn’t going to work. Not with this one.  
Thirteen victims, predictable, and then unpredictable, and then irrational for poor bloke number twelve. He was the clue – as Sherlock had thought. He gave away the last victim – which he figured it’d be either that or it would give away the murderer and they’d catch him just after the thirteenth victim. Which wasn’t completely wrong either.  
John had been the most right, however. Nothing about this was predictable – this was a serial killer. Sherlock liked to over-complicate things in his boredom. But this man killed one way for a time, then got bored on poor number twelve because he’d been using the same old tactic this whole time and his own work seemed to bore him. So instead of using syringes to inject the acid he used a fishing spear, which he had bought brand new just for the occasion. He then poured controlled amounts of the acid into the wounds, and covered them to keep the man alive just long enough for the frontal lobe to decay – which you could almost see in the victim’s eyes. That was the joy of it. Watching them lose their mind. Suffer.

John had caught on that this was for Sherlock, just like Moriarty, but Sherlock almost seemed too humble to believe it. He thought it was too soon, or that it just didn’t make enough sense. After all, why would a doctor come after him, right?  
Well, a doctor wouldn’t.  
A doctor would, however, stand by his side, make him breakfast, aid him on the way home after getting drunk, sit with him in the hospital as his blood supply was replenished, hold frozen peas to his face so he could continue his work; he had a doctor of his very own, so no, he didn’t have two doctors on his case. Just one.  
A doctor and a man with an extremely intelligent imagination.

“He’s been out for too long.” John said into the phone, putting his jacket on as he headed towards the door.  
“Any idea where he was headed?” Lestrade asked, making John’s panic set in.  
“No clue. He didn’t say, just said he wouldn’t be long.” John sighed, stepping out into the horrendous weather and getting into a cab. “I’m coming to the station – start gathering people to look for him. He’s got himself into trouble and I know it.”

• • •

“Sherlock Holmes.” The voice rung around the dead space, echoing around the pillars and gunk. Graffiti littered the walls greedily, and the ground itself was a health hazard. But Sherlock knew this was where he was meant to be, and so did he.  
“Yes. And who are you?” Sherlock called back, the sound of rain hardly subdued by the thin, cracking walls – instead of a pounding rain it was more of a shadow of a storm; right there, but still very present.  
“The winner.” He called back, his voice sounding hoarse. He coughed, then laughed, and Sherlock looked around for the source of the horrendous sounds.  
“I wouldn’t say that yet.” Sherlock said. “Thirteen victims, that was the plan. And you’ve only killed twelve.” He said, feeling triumphant for but a moment.  
“Have I?” The voice asked, stepping into view. A trench coat, collar turned up, scarf around the neck, and curly black locks atop. Sherlock was looking into a metaphorical mirror. “I’d hardly say that.” He continued, walking to the left. Sherlock watched him closely, mirroring his movements. “I’ve planned this out… you know I have.”  
“Quite beautifully so.” Sherlock agreed, keeping his head.  
“Isn’t it wonderful, the games you can play.” He said. “You can dance for a song, but when it ends…” Sherlock stopped there, and so did the murderer. “It’s your unlucky day, Sherlock.” He said. “How ironic it’s Friday the thirteenth, hm?”  
Sherlock pulled a gun, aiming steadily at the man’s forehead.  
“Oh, and the tables turn.” He said, raising his hands as he laughed. “But are we at the tables?”

Sherlock felt nauseated, his throat feeling awfully dry and his eyes and nose running. He put a hand to his neck as he doubled over, falling to his knees as he retched and brought up the only food he’d had in ages. He stared down in confusion, not understanding.  
“How did you…”  
“Quite simple.” He said, walking toward Sherlock. “Timing, prediction, and record-keeping.”


	13. Shine On The One I Love

Sirens are made to get your attention, to warn you they’re coming, to show authority. The lights do the same – they double as a team. You can multiply and divide how many you have, and oh did Lestrade multiply.  
Tracking Sherlock’s phone wasn’t easy as it’d been bugged and the location bounced around, but it bounced between one location and many, so they took a shot. That location was about three miles off, as Sherlock’s phone was taken from him. They found it and had a search party put together, and then another, and then another, and they all went frantically searching for the man.  
John was with Lestrade, calling Sherlock’s name with the mob. His was much more frequent and panicked, as he’d let him go off alone on the day the murder was to happen. He didn’t take the hints – the last few days, sight-seeing, going to the pub, eating. Sherlock was preparing to die.  
John’s heart raced – he couldn’t do this again; not for real. It was hard enough last time. It was too hard. He couldn’t lose another one – not him, not again, not now. Not now.

They approached a large building that was damaged and defiled, and John went running. Lestrade ordered his men to run in first, but John was faster. His feet carried him through the mud and under the roof of the building. “Sherlock!” He yelled, walking quickly throughout the building. “Sherlock, where are you?” He howled, his voice cracking.  
Then he saw him. “Oh my god.” He whispered to himself, running to the figure on the ground, just a pile of trench coat and blood. “Sherlock, Sherlock, look at me.” He said, taking his pulse. His heart was beating, but slowly, and his breathing was fast and shallow. His eyes hardly opened upon hearing his name.  
“John,” He rasped, coughed, and his eyes closed. Blood was running down his front, his arms, his legs – it was everywhere. Sherlock’s’ breathing decreased in speed until it was hardly a breath a minute. Other medics came in and policemen searched the area for the killer, nothing turning up. Not a single piece of evidence Not a footprint, a drop of blood; nothing.  
“Sherlock, Sherlock stay with me here, you’re going to be fine.” He said, having found where the wound is and helping the other doctor in trying to stop the bleeding. He was holding bandages to his friend’s chest, putting immense pressure on it. “You’re going to be fine, look at me, keep your eyes open.” He said, to which he got no response. They hooked him up to a heart monitor, which only reported uneven heartbeats. They put an oxygen mask on him, getting him on a stretcher and carrying him out.

John went with on the helicopter to the hospital. He stood in the corner of the room as surgeons worked on Sherlock for what seemed like days – eventually they kicked him out, saying he should get some rest. He couldn’t rest. He’d just found his friend drenched in blood again, but this time he was almost murdered – he was being pumped full of drugs and morphine and oxygen to keep him going, and John was just waiting for the moment the beeping would stop.  
The heart monitor was unsteady – it’d speed up, then drop off. Speed up, drop off. He was allowed into his room when they were done. He went in to see his best friend with a tube down his throat and IVs in his arm. Blood on one, morphine on the other as he guessed. He didn’t look at that for long. He sat in his chair, his heart having sunk to the bottom of his ribcage.  
“I’m so sorry.” He said, feeling his nose tickle as his eyes stung. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t…” His voice broke. He leaned forward, staring at the white tile floor of the hospital. “I couldn’t keep you safe.” He said, his words airy and hoarse. “From yourself. And that’s on me.” He said, then got up to stand by the door, pinching his nose, but never leaving the room. People told him to leave to get some proper sleep, but he wouldn’t. They told him visiting hours were over and had Mycroft allow it. He sat in the chair next to the hospital bed, the sound of the heart monitor being all that told him this was reality. Because no way in hell would he dream up such an irritating sound for this long.

He missed the sound of the violin being played outside his door. He missed the sarcasm and how he degraded everyone because he was, in fact, intellectually superior to most. His observation skills were unparalleled, there was no question about it.  
John fell asleep in that chair, woke up with a sore back, stood by the window and looked out, sat back down, had coffee brought to him, took a sip and then left it alone, fell asleep, and repeat. Mycroft came in every day to check on him, but never stayed longer than an hour. He brought John food every day, offering sandwiches, breakfast foods, soups, salads – John never ate any of it. He couldn’t. Not after what he’d done.

He’d killed Sherlock. He’d let him out of his sight on the day they were expecting murder, not having seen the signs of Sherlock letting go, and he let him go on his own. John felt full responsibility for it, and nothing could change that.  
He spent a full week next to his comatose friend, staring at his pale skin and watching in deadened silence as nurses came in to check on him, check his drip, take their notes and leave again.  
A full week. A full seven days. He sat in that chair, badly needing a massage, food, and a big glass of water, but he wouldn’t leave.  
He couldn’t leave.

On the eighth morning John was fast asleep, his snores gently filling the room with life.  
Sherlock’s eyes opened. He stared at the ceiling, squinting at first because the sun had just risen and it was making the room blindingly white. The place smelled of cleaning chemicals and latex. The hospital. Sherlock heard the beeping of the heart monitor and saw the drip bags. He looked to his left, looking out the window as he heard distant sirens outside. He heard chatter outside the room, and gentle breathing.  
He looked to his right, seeing John. He’d let himself go, and it showed. His cheekbones were more prominent, his eyes were sunken, and his whole body sung of pain. But to Sherlock’s surprise, as he would find out soon, the song wasn’t about physical pain.  
“John?” He coughed as the tube down his throat choked him. John’s head snapped up as he saw his friend immediately struggling against the tube that was helping him breathe only seconds before – he pressed the button to call a nurse several shaky times and told Sherlock to calm down.  
“Shh, Sherlock, look at me.” He said, continuing to say his name until they locked eyes. “You’re fine. It was just to help you breathe.” He said, instinctively putting his hand on his friend’s face. “You’re alive.” He choked, his eyes stinging and his throat tightening. “Oh my god, I thought…” He whispered, sinking back into his chair in shock as nurses came in to help Sherlock and adjust the amount of support he was on.  
Sherlock didn’t take his eyes off of John for one second.

“Did you catch him?” Sherlock asked as soon as his throat had stopped throbbing and stinging.  
“Who?” John asked, frowning at the question – he had forgotten about the case altogether. He just wanted Sherlock to be back – also, “Oh, yeah, him… yeah, we caught him.”  
“And?” Sherlock asked, raising his eyebrows, hardly looking at sarcastic as he usually would at how slow John was being. He looked sensitive.  
“Name’s Jim – you seem to have a thing for Jim’s… like a Jim magnet…”  
“Go on.” Sherlock said, seeing John’s mind spinning in circles. He wanted him to stay on track, though – he wanted to know what happened to the man that almost beat him.  
“Right, sorry – looked kind of like… you. Jacket, scarf-”  
“Yes, I know, I saw him, met him, he almost killed me, go on.” Sherlock said, gesturing. His voice was still tender – from his throat, and because he was glad to see John again. And how happy he clearly was to see Sherlock awake again.  
“Right, yeah that makes sense, uh… he was a book keeper at the university – but apparently he had impersonated a policeman a couple times to get into police files, as well as a doctor for doctor files… and various other crimes. Murder being the worst, and, well, theft being the least.” He said, shrugging.  
“So he wasn’t even a doctor.” Sherlock shook his head. “I was wrong.”  
“Everyone’s wrong sometimes.” John said, and when Sherlock scoffed his face dropped. “Sherlock.” He said, waiting until Sherlock looked at him, and then waited a little more. “Everyone’s wrong sometimes.” He said firmly, leaning his elbows on his knees. “Even you. Even me.”  
“But you were right. About the case.” Sherlock said, rubbing his eyes. “He was after me, he wasn’t a doctor…”  
“But I was wrong about you.” John said, his voice suddenly empty. It was hardly John’s voice anymore – the only thing that made it his was the fact that it came from his body. “I didn’t see you were doing all those things because you knew it was you, I didn’t clue in that you were eating because you saw the end… And yet you still walked into it – actually, Sherlock why did you go there without me?”  
“I… I thought the target was you.” Sherlock said, closing his eyes and then looking at John harshly. “There were small, hardly noticeable puncture wounds on the twelfth victim’s right arm, and it was a message.”  
“Morse?” John asked, thinking that’d be the easiest way.  
“It said it was you – I won’t go into it any more than that.” Sherlock said, and no matter how much John pressed he wouldn’t say what exactly the message said. So he stopped pushing.  
“Coffee?” John asked after a while, feeling as if he was in a dream – Sherlock was awake, complaining about the IVs and saying he wanted to go back to 221B despite the refusal to be discharged from the hospital staff.  
“Of course.” Sherlock said as if that was a ridiculous question. John smiled a bit, standing up to get some.

• • •

Sherlock was discharged within the week after begrudgingly agreeing to eat properly and drink water when it was requested of him. He immediately requested tea and played the violin. He stood by the window, playing melodically as John watched from the kitchen, arms crossed over his chest as he listened to the kettle start to agitate.  
Then the old lullaby started. Just like before – the one that lulled John to sleep, then agitated him. The same one – Sherlock was playing it again, and John could hear his mom sing it in his head.

I see the moon and the moon sees me  
Under the shade of the old oak tree  
Please let the moon that shines on me  
Shine on the one I love

Over the oceans and over the seas  
Back where my heart is longing to be  
Please let the moon that shines on me  
Shine on the one I love

John had closed his eyes as he listened, feeling the song reach inside him – he thought of his mom, and heard her voice, but he saw Sherlock, standing outside his door for hours playing the same melody over and over on the violin ever so quietly as not to wake him, but just to soothe.  
Sherlock was hardly a foot away from him now. John’s eyes were open, and he heard the kettle whistling beside him, but it hardly felt like they were in the same universe. Sherlock was looking down at him, but not just with his eyes like usual. His whole head was angled down, his violin in one hand and the bow in the other. Although that quickly changed as he set them down and pulled John in for a hug, burying his head in his neck.  
“I’m sorry,” He said, shaking his head the small amount he could while keeping his face hidden. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”  
John stood there in shocked silence, his body stiff until he hugged him back, accepting his apology and eventually saying it wasn’t needed – that it wasn’t completely his fault, that he was trying to be the best friend he could.  
John put his hands on Sherlock’s upper arms, holding him there for a moment just to look at him. “It’s okay.” He repeated, everything he was in that moment projecting that what he said was true. Sherlock’s face relaxed out of its contorted discomfort as he realized that it was.  
It was okay. He was okay. They were okay. They did it. They did it, both of them, and they both walked away.

John let go of him promptly, his hands dropping to his sides awkwardly as he heard the whistling again, opening the kettle to pour water into the cups. He held out one to Sherlock, who promptly pushed it aside, placing a hand on either side of John’s face, eyes closed, and pressed their lips together.  
John dropped the cup, hearing the shadow of it shatter against the floor, and feeling it ghost against his leg, but he could hardly pay attention to that. He couldn’t pay attention to anything but Sherlock with his rhythmic heartbeat, his expansive, shadowed emotions, his opportunist eyes, and his absolute love for John Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! It's Done! The whole thing is done now, and who'd have guessed... I never expected the song to be so prominent but having read through it again I realized it is quite a prominent factor in the story. Hence why the names of the chapters are based upon the lyrics of the lullaby (that I grew up with). I hope everyone liked it, and I'm planning to write shorts soon as what comes after since I did... cut it short... at the end there... and I want more, just as much as anyone who makes it this far probably will. So there will be shorts coming soon and it will be announced somehow - keep your eyes out for that if you're interested. Thanks again for reading - it really means a lot. <3  
> -BazookaMelon


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